A Nightmare of a Different Kind
by EveningInHornersCorners
Summary: He could have sworn it was all a bad dream, that it hadn't actually happened. But there was nothing to prove that it hadn't... This is the sequel to "All You Get Is Pain".
1. Insomnia and Coffee

_**A/N: Hi! I've decided to do a more structured updating schedule this time around. So, I'm going to be updating every Friday night.**_

_**And yes, for this story to work, I must take down "Sisters At Heart". But don't worry. It might be back up once I finish this story and change around a few of the details and such.**_

_**I'd like to this dedicate to a person who inspired parts of my format, not to mention my creative muse. Thank you, Crystal Rose of Pollux. You are truly brilliant.**_

Davy's eyes flew open as he hit the floor and found himself face-to-face with the carpet, which seemed like the lesser of two evils compared to the horrific character he'd expected to see, the flames glinting in his eyes, holding up the dagger, fresh with Bea's blood...

_It was only that dream again. Why? It's been months…_

"Ugh." He muttered, picking himself up off the floor. He hadn't intended to fall asleep on the couch, and he guessed the others hadn't wanted to wake him up…

No! They couldn't have noticed…

Ever since their last confrontation with Blair, three whole months ago, Davy had been having these horrible nightmares, followed by awful, almost nightly bouts of insomnia.

They were always the same nightmares; making his own noose while Blair loomed over him or being pushing off a cliff. Then there was the worst one, the one he'd had tonight: watching the heavyset man stab his younger sister, Beatrice, to death and then having to be called from England by his grandfather and told that she was dead, which of course he already painfully knew.

He was haunted to no end by these dreams, but he didn't know why they still bothered him so much, since they were all so familiar.

But there was still no way that Davy was going to try going back to sleep. He was too afraid that one of those nightmares might overtake him again. His worst fear was waking up screaming or something. Then the others would know.

He had strived to keep the fact that he had been having nightmares this long from his band mates. He didn't want to worry them, but most of all he didn't want them to think less of him because of something naïve like that. He was already the youngest in the group, and he'd always made a point to prove that he was as mature as they were.

But he always felt like he failed.

Like when he'd beat up Mr. Powell because he wouldn't let him get anywhere near his daughter and gotten them stuck with that huge hospital bill because he broke the man's nose. Then he'd run away and managed to get them involved with Blair and all. He certainly hadn't shown any real maturity; only youthful ignorance. It had been the others who had gotten him out of every pickle he'd managed to stumble into. There were times he felt like he'd made an even bigger mistake by agreeing to never run away again, but then the words Mike had spoken always echoed clearly in his mind:

_You have to promise that you'll never run away from us again. Never. You made a mistake. And it wasn't exactly a little mistake. But we need you. We care what happens to you._

And then later, when he'd hesitated to put his hand on their stack:

_You worried us, Tiny. There were so many times that we could have lost you in the last few days, just because of that mistake that made you think we didn't want you. Don't do that to us again._

He rolled over and cast a glance at the clock.

Twelve o'clock.

He'd been asleep for around five hours. That was more sleep than he got on most nights. Occasionally he'd splurge and try to get seven or eight hours, but that was only when it seemed like it would become too obvious to the others that he wasn't getting enough sleep. But after a night or two of _that_, he was more than ready to go back to the entire insomnia routine because he was plagued even more by those horrid nightmares.

Davy had gotten used to the loneliness that came with the insomnia long ago, but he still didn't enjoy it.

_Well, as long as I can't sleep I might as well make myself some coffee. _

Davy knew very well that he'd be as tired as anything later that day, but he feared napping lest he be terrorized by the evil dreams. So instead he loaded himself down with caffeine. He really wasn't all that keen on the bitter taste of coffee and would have much preferred to drink tea, only its caffeine content did next to nothing for him. So he tried not to grimace with every sip and just decided to bear the stronger beverage without complaint. He even drank Micky's thicker-than-molasses coffee, which, if you drank too much, would keep you up all night (and then some), wondering why you drank so much coffee when you knew better, and that was what Davy was aiming for. After all, that was the price he had to pay for keeping his troubles from the others. As much as he might have _liked_ to break down and confess everything, he knew he couldn't, if only because it would severely wound his pride.

He skulked silently into the kitchen and prepared his coffee as quietly as possible. Unfortunately, as much as he hated to, he had to turn on the light so he could see what he was doing.

The percolater had finished when he heard a voice behind him drawl, "You realize it's past midnight, right?"

He turned around and found himself facing Mike, who had his arms folded across his chest.

"Oh, Mike…Coffee?" he offered with exaggerated cheerfulness as he poured himself a mug of the steaming liquid.

"No thanks. And I really don't think you should be having any either."

"But Mike, we don't have any tea and I'm a little tired and…"

"For good reason. Like I said, it's past midnight. Sometimes it's a good idea to go back to bed when you're tired. And besides, tea doesn't have the same effect as coffee. You know that." Davy _did_ know that his reasoning about not having any tea was pretty lame, but he hadn't expected Mike to pick up on it that quickly.

At that moment Davy just wanted to stop keeping everything to himself and tell Mike everything; about the nightmares, the fear of sleeping, how little sleep he was getting as a result of that fear. But he knew he had to be strong. After all, it wasn't as if he wasn't getting _any _sleep and he certainly wasn't being physically harmed.

Davy casually walked out of the kitchen and away from the Texan with his coffee mug in hand and sat down on the sofa which he'd fallen asleep on earlier. Mike followed him, not even bothering to turn out the light in the kitchen. He sat down next to his younger friend and attempted to look him straight in the eye.

"Tiny, is there something wrong? I've known you for years, ever since you were fifteen, and if I know anything about you after four years it's that you hate coffee. Except lately you've been drinking it like water. What's up?"

Not wanting to hurt his friend, Davy held back a cutting remark and was silent as he inhaled the scent of the coffee. In his mind, there was no denying that coffee smelled better than it tasted.

"Tiny?"

Still nothing.

"Okay. You don't have to tell me. But if you ever want to talk, I'm always here." The Texan stood up and started back to his bedroom.

"Mike!" he called after him. The other man turned around and waited expectantly. But at the last minute the Brit lost his nerve.

"Goodnight, Mike."

"Goodnight to you too, Davy."

He might have expected Mike would notice something like that. On many occasions he'd flat out refused coffee. Davy wondered if the other had noticed him drinking so much coffee, and he realized that Micky must have been surprised when he asked for a mug of _his_ coffee. He didn't know whether Peter had noticed, but the blonde could be so acutely observant at times it seemed almost unsafe to assume he hadn't.

_Well, the cat's not out of the bag yet. I'll just have to be more careful next time…_

He tilted the cup up to his lips and found that the coffee had cooled a little, so he began to drink in long gulps, trying to avoid the taste. He quickly drained that cup and went to get another. As he poured it, he grimaced at the flavor of the last one still lingering in his mouth.

_Remember Davy, this is for your own good._ He reprimanded himself sternly. Once again he took the cup out to the living room and let it cool down before he took his first sip. It wasn't any better than the last one, but he was starting to feel a tad more alert. Slowly, memories of his nightmarish terror faded away. Maybe, with a little luck, he could make it through today.


	2. Front Page News

Mike whistled softly as he walked into the kitchen. He loved this time of morning, not the middle of the night, but before anyone else was up.

Or, at least, _usually_ before anyone else was up.

The Texan was thoroughly surprised to find Micky in the kitchen preparing coffee, Dolenz style.

"What are _you_ doing up?" Mike demanded almost incredulously.

"Can't a guy break out of his routine every once in a while?" Micky rolled his eyes as he poured himself a cup of his brew.

"Hey, what's for breakfast?" Peter called as he strode in.

"Everyone seems to be up early today. Am I missing something?" Mike inquired, half in jest.

"Huh?" Peter asked.

"Never mind. But I talked to Davy last night and I think we were right before. Something really is wrong with him. And he's keeping it from us." Micky and Peter both nodded solemnly.

About three months ago, right after their confrontation with Blair, the three of them had really started to notice a change in Davy. At first they thought he might have still been trying to get over the shock of meeting up with Blair again after his parents' deaths and that he might want to work through it alone, since none of them had known him until after his parents died and thus they hadn't been with him when the evil man first attacked. But when a month, then two slipped by, their concern had grown. And when the Brit had started to request _Micky's_ coffee two weeks ago instead of making his own (especially when he already loathed the beverage), well, they just had to investigate. So Micky and Peter had nominated Mike to try and find something out because he'd known Davy the longest.

"You see, last night I found…Oh, he's coming. I'll tell you later." Mike hurriedly lowered his voice to a whisper as he heard Davy on the steps.

"Morning, guys." He greeted them briefly as he made his way toward the coffeepot and poured himself a cup of the steaming beverage.

"What's happening today?" Micky tried to keep conversation as far away from their previous topic as possible.

"Nothing. No gigs or anything. I guess all we can do is practice." Mike declared matter-of-factly as he slammed two pieces of bread down in the toaster.

"When _was_ the last time we had a gig?" Peter inquired.

"Let's see. It's nearly Christmas and we haven't had a gig since…Thanksgiving. Right Davy?" Mike mused.

Silence.

"Guys, I'm going on a walk." Davy announced suddenly, bringing his half-full coffee cup down on the table a little harder than he'd intended to and in the process splashing some of the warm liquid out.

Micky stared at him incredulously. "In _this_ weather?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Why not? It's raining."

Davy rolled his eyes. "You're forgetting I'm from England. I've been out in a lot worse than this." The other three weren't entirely satisfied, but they decided that trying to stop him wasn't worth it. Davy could be more stubborn than a donkey if he set his mind to it.

"While you're out, could you buy us a newspaper? The last one we bought is, oh, about three weeks old." Mike dug into his pocket and then handed Davy a few coins that he'd saved from their last gig.

"Okay. See you later." The Brit started to walk out the door.

"Wait." Mike commanded. "You need a coat. Like Mick said, it's raining."

Davy just shrugged, grabbed his raincoat and umbrella out of the closet, and then left the pad.

"Mike, you promised to tell us what happened last night." Peter reminded him once their youngest member was out of earshot.

Before Mike could begin speaking, the bread shot out of the toaster. Micky leapt up from his seat to observe it hit the bottom of a cabinet before landing on the counter.

"Wahoo! New record, man!" the drummer exclaimed, putting the toast on a plate and slipping two more slices of bread into the toaster, hoping maybe he'd be able to break _this_ record. He slid the plate easily onto the table. "Have we got any butter?"

"Nope. Sorry Mick. But we have margarine." Mike grinned crookedly at his friend, who grimaced in return.

"Mike, what happened?" Peter persisted as he reached for one of the slices of toast.

"Well, you know, Shotgun, now that I think about it, it really wasn't all that much, considering. I found Davy drinking some coffee around midnight last night. That's all. It just seemed so weird because he hates coffee and yet it seems like he's drinking it twenty-four seven…literally." The Texan admitted, grabbing the other piece of toast before Micky could get to it. The drummer scowled.

"That's really strange. Come to think of it, he _has_ been drinking coffee by the gallon lately. What do you think is up?" the blonde mused through bites of toast.

"_He _is." Micky cracked. His joke was immediately dampened by the glares of his two band mates.

"Hey! I was just trying to lighten the mood. Gosh!"

"We appreciate your humorous endeavors, but they won't do very much for us at the current time, Mick." Mike quipped. "But seriously, he's worrying me. He gave us a big enough scare by getting involved with that Chuck Holly character to last three lifetimes. What if it's something worse than that?"

"How could anything be worse than _that_?" Micky demanded. "Sometimes my wrist still hurts where that guy stabbed me with the needle. And you wonder why my drumming seems a little cramped sometimes." He caressed his wrist softly, moaning pitifully. Mike rolled his eyes.

"Well, I'm sorry if we misunderstood you, Mick, but you'd be surprised at how many things could be worse than that. What if Davy is still being harassed by him?"

"He's in jail, remember?" the drummer tried to refresh Mike's memory.

"True. But anything could happen…"

"Shush! I think Davy's back." Peter hissed as he heard the door open.

"Well what do you know? And I'll bet he remembered to get the paper, too." Mike marveled sarcastically.

However, upon seeing Davy walk into the kitchen, everything but the purest concern faded away.

The English boy was shaking violently, writhing in an attempt to fight the tears that he obviously didn't want the world to see. But it really wouldn't have made much difference whether he was crying or not due to the rainwater coming down his face in cascades, not to mention a brown smear that they assumed was mud dripping down his right cheek. The two of these were blended with a generous helping of blood. His dark hair was soaked and his shoes and pants were streaked with dirt and water. The front of his jacket was heavily coated with a thick layer of mud.

"Davy, what happened? Man, you're a wreck!" Micky exclaimed. He didn't even flinch when the toast came up, which was a rare event indeed, even though this time it didn't do anything extraordinary.

"I…Guys…He…He…" Davy finally gave up trying to speak. He only pulled a wet newspaper out from his coat, handed it to Mike and ran out of the room on shaky legs, probably making a mad dash for the stairs. He left a trail of muddy footprints in the kitchen, but the others didn't notice at all.

Peter and Micky exchanged a worried glance and immediately got up from their seats and went around the table. Mike straightened the flopping paper

But the front page headline was not what they would have expected to see.

Not in a million years.


	3. I Guess I Should Have Stayed In Bed

Micky was the first one to speak. "No! That's impossible!"

"This _can't_ be right!" Peter reasoned.

Though Mike was silent, he was in just as much, if not more, denial than his band mates.

But, there it was, right in front of their eyes:

_**ESCAPED!**_

_**Notorious Murderer Chuck Holly Breaks Out of High Security Prison Late Last Night**_

The article went on to say that it was thought that a guard had assisted him but that by this point both were probably long gone. Knowing the man's level of craftiness, Mike was willing to bet that at least the latter assumption was correct.

Then it began to describe the various murders he had committed, most prominently the "ingenious murder of Harold and Anna Jones", and after that started a commentary on his most recent non-murder act:

_Several months ago, Holly (under the pseudonym of "Blair") was also accused of harassing four young men, especially one by the name of David Jones, who claims to be the son of Harold and Anna Jones. These men did not report his actions to the police until Holly attempted to poison Jones and his associate, Micky Dolenz, with a complex homemade concoction. _

"_It's an insult to the police department that they didn't report these incidents." Chief of Police Ferdinand Montgomery explains. "We want civilians to tell us when something is amiss. These boys have set a very poor example of good citizenship that I sincerely hope is not the norm for the young generation." _

_These four men call themselves "monkeys" for some unknown reason. It is believed that perhaps they are just one of many groups in league with Holly and that "monkey" is the name he gave them. _

"_We think they may be Mr. Holly's former cohorts who turned on him at the last minute and faked the poisoning episode to get revenge on him." Montgomery reveals. The only person who can testify against this, besides the young men, is a nurse by the name of Hazel Glosser, who apparently administered the "antidote" to Jones and Dolenz. The police will be questioning all five as soon as possible._

"Man." Micky breathed. "No wonder Davy's so upset. We thought we got rid of him. But then he escapes, and now, on top of it all, the police think _we're_ in league with him."

"The nerve of some people." Mike muttered, slamming the only partially dried newspaper down on the table. "The newspaper is shredding Davy's reputation to bits! Remember that article about the boxing thing?" All three grimaced at the memory.

"We _tried_ to report this to the police, but they kept shrugging it off!" Peter growled. "And then they lectured us on not reporting it! _They're_ probably the ones in league with Blair!"

"Now hold on," Mike cautioned. "Sure, the police didn't believe us and then they pulled a 'why didn't you say so', but that's no reason for us to assume that they're on his side."

"But what're we going to do? The only person who's on _our_ side is Hazel and that's just five of us against the rest of humanity…Who knows? Maybe _she'll_ turn on us too." Peter sent Micky an annoyed glare, trying to telepathically convey that he wasn't helping matters, but the drummer didn't seem to comprehend. He began pacing the length of the kitchen.

"So we already think something's wrong with him, and then _this_ has to happen." Mike slapped the table angrily, making Davy's discarded cup of coffee quiver slightly.

"Do you think there's a possibility that he could have already known Blair was going to escape, and that's why he was so upset?" Micky asked.

"Three months in advance? No way." The Texan said bluntly.

"But don't you remember that late-night werewolf movie marathon? Right after that June Lockhart film they showed that one where the guy has premonitions about the werewolf twenty years beforehand and…"

"But that's the movies!" Peter countered.

"Sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction…" Micky deadpanned, forming a claw with his hand and scratching at the air.

###

_No! It can't be! Why didn't they stop him?_

Davy was lying on his bed with his cheek down on his pillow, not caring in the slightest about the mess that his sheets would be after the mud and dirty water that he had neglected to clean up were through with them.

Micky was right. He really _was_ a wreck. First the nightmares leaving him fearing his own shadow, the coffee addiction, and then the fight today. He'd been declining ever since they'd met up with Blair and yet had denied it the entire time.

"Okay, okay. You win." He muttered to no one in particular.

He felt a little tired and thought about going downstairs for some coffee, but then realized that doing such a thing would be a bad idea. The blood had dried a while ago but he hadn't noticed until now that his cheek was virtually glued to the pillow by it. Even if he'd tried to pull it off, doing that would cause the blood to appear more abundant than ever. No need to worry the others unnecessarily.

In any case, he didn't really want to answer the questions about what had happened to him that and the others were sure to ask them. But he was confident that there would be enough later when his black eye started to show through.

He grinned wryly, remembering when he'd beat up Mr. Powell and gotten them involved with all this. He'd come home bleeding up a storm that day and his pillow had been stained the next morning.

The morning he'd decided to leave home.

He'd had no idea how much that one decision would change his life.

Since being rescued from the poisoning incident he'd gone from his outgoing, friendly self to a fear-driven person with a chip on his shoulder, the latter of which he had come out during the fight when he'd gone to buy the newspaper.

_I never thought it would happen. But I'm turning into someone I don't know..._

###

"Do you think we should try to talk to him?" Peter asked cautiously, plucking the long-forgotten bread out of the toaster.

Mike sighed. "I don't know, Shotgun. I just don't know."

"Look, considering the way he was when he walked in here, he's liable to do something rash." Micky exclaimed, amazed at his band mates. He started for the stairs.

"Hold it, Mick." Mike commanded, leaping out of his seat.

Micky crossed his arms. "Don't you trust me?"

"Not especially." Mike admitted dryly.

"Mike, I am perfectly…"

"You don't know him as well…

"Guys, we can't fight." Peter cut in, darting over from the table. "This is really hard on Davy. He needs us supporting him, not making it harder."

All three of them went quiet for a moment.

"You're right, Pete." Micky finally broke the silence. Then he turned to Mike and unfolded his arms. "Sorry, Mike."

"Me too, Mick. Now why don't all three of us go up and see what we can do."

They quietly filed up the spiral staircase and into Davy and Peter's room.

The English boy was lying on his side, still in the dirty clothes he'd entered the pad in, except for the jacket, which was lying discarded on the floor right next to the bed. His head was turned away from them.

Mike went to sit down on the end of the bed. He noted that there were a few red marks on his younger friend's bare arm.

"Hi, Tiny."

"You read it then?" He snapped without looking at him.

"Yeah. Tiny, we're really sorry about that."

"You don't have to be."

"But that doesn't mean we aren't. Look Tiny, if you want to be alone, we'll leave you alone. We won't force our company on you. But don't you at least want us to take those clothes down to the laundry or something?"

"I don't care." The English boy's voice cracked a little.

"What happened today?" Mike knew very well that he was asking the question in vain because Davy definitely wouldn't tell him, but he figured he'd give it a shot.

Silence, just as expected.

"Tiny, look me in the eye."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"I just can't. Look could you just…leave me alone?"

"Okay, Tiny. Again, I'm not gonna force you. But I wanted to tell you that we really are sorry. If there's anything we can do, just let us know." He rose from the end of the bed and went out the bedroom door, followed closely by Peter and Micky.

"Wow, Mike. That _really_ accomplished something." The drummer's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Mick…" Peter warned, recalling what had happened earlier.

"Look, he'll be even more upset if we force him into things. The poor fellow's had enough for one day." Mike explained, sitting down on the sofa.

"But Mike, that's the entire point. We _want_ to know what happened today." The drummer protested, taking a seat beside him.

"And at some point he'll talk. But obviously not right now. We just need to be patient." Mike countered.

"He's right, Micky. Poor Davy. He's really upset." Peter murmured.

"_Exactly_ why we need to leave him alone." The Texan agreed.

"But Mike, how can we help him if we don't know what's wrong?" Micky's voice brimmed with friendly concern.

Mike looked the drummer in the eye. "Mick, I'm just as worried as you. Maybe even more worried. It's not that I don't want to help him. Not at all. I want to do that more than anything. But I've known him longer than you guys. I'm more accustomed to his tendencies. Really, I know what I'm doing. So please. Just…trust me."


	4. The Unpleasantness at the Monkees Club

"_But Mr. Holly…"_

"_Courtesy will get you nowhere, Jones."_

"_But you can't throw me off that cliff!"_

"_Can I not? Just watch me try."_

"_No! Please! Don't!"_

"_Would you rather it was your sister?"_

"_No!"_

"_Then bear it. No worries though. I have something much worse in store for her. She won't miss out on any of the fun."_

"_No! I won't let you at my sister, you fiend!"_

"_Temper, temper, Jones."_

"_I hate you Chuck Holly! I hate you!"_

"_I know Jones. I wasn't born yesterday. But we can't all be friends, now can we? Why couldn't you at least __try__ to be nice?"_

"_Who's talking?"_

"_That is quite enough, David! Be quiet!"_

"_You can't tell me to be quiet!"_

"_Oh yes I can."_

Davy's eyes flew open. Though he knew he shouldn't be surprised that a nightmare had him on the floor yet _again_, he nonetheless was. Glancing at the clock and seeing that it read 11:42, he was shocked. He realized that he must have been dead tired to have been able to fall asleep so much earlier this morning and wake up _now_.

He felt truly awful, still in the clothes that he'd come in from getting the paper in, except for the jacket, which didn't really make much difference because he'd landed on it.

Davy knew blood was streaming down the right side of his face, and his black eye felt terrible.

_If things like that keep happening, I'm not going to be able to hide this much longer. _

He picked himself up, then groped into the bathroom and washed his face. Looking at himself in the mirror, he decided that, except for his eye, which was considerably swollen, and the bruise around it (coal black was an understatement), he didn't look bad. For a fleeting moment he considered taking a shower, but he decided that he just didn't have the energy.

Walking back into the bedroom, he changed into a fresh set of clothes and felt immensely better.

_Now to go face the others._

He tried to walk down the stairs as quietly as possible, but when the fourth step down creaked the others were out of the kitchen in a flash.

"What happened to your eye?"

"Are you okay?"

"Davy, talk to us!"

The diminutive Englishman finished descending the steps. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking from the eyes of one of one band mate to another. There was worry in all three pairs, and not the _did I flunk this test? _kind of worry. It was the _will he make it out of this alive? _worry. He knew that look only too well.

_C'mon Davy. They're just worried about your black eye. When you say what happened, things will be okay again._

"I just got in a fight." He stated simply. However, relief did not immediately begin clouding their eyes as he had expected.

"With a…woman. I accidently tripped over her dog and landed in a mud puddle and she…uh…socked me. That's how I got the eye." He could see that his band mates weren't convinced. Davy was lying through his teeth; he knew it, and they knew it.

"Okay Tiny. Now how about the truth?" The Texan's eyes burned as he looked at the Englishman. Davy turned away from his friend.

"You said you wouldn't force me to talk."

"And I'm not. But if you're going to tell us anything it should be the truth."

Without turning around, he admitted, "All right. It was a policeman."

"And you accidently tripped over his dog and landed in a mud puddle before he socked you?" Micky snickered, causing Mike to send a death glare in his direction.

"No, I…Oh never mind. What do you care anyway?"

"Davy." Mike's voice had a warning note in it.

"Guys, I'm nineteen years old. I can take care of myself. You don't have to know about every little thing that happens to me. If I need your help, I'll let you know. But I won't be needing it any time soon." He started for the stairs, but Micky caught his arm.

"What makes you so sure of that?"

_No Micky. Don't. He won't respond well…_ It shocked Mike how impulsive and sometimes idiotic Micky's actions so often were, though he knew it was old news by this point.

_About as old as Shakespeare…_

Davy's eyes were fiery, burning with a fury that none of them had ever seen him display.

"I just know, okay?" he snapped.

"Okay." Mike returned coolly. "Let him go, Mick."

Micky was somewhat puzzled, but he did as Mike said and let go of Davy's arm. The shorter boy immediately bolted up the stairs.

"What's with you, Mike?" Peter asked in an almost irritated voice.

"Yeah. We might have gotten something out of him." Micky chimed in.

"If we'd threatened him with a worse fate than Chuck Holly could offer." The Texan observed dryly.

"Are you _trying_ to thwart our efforts?" the drummer demanded. "Do you _enjoy_ seeing him like this?"

"What do you think?"

The room became silent.

Seeing the hurt in Mike's eyes, Micky spoke at last. "I'm sorry Mike. Of course you don't like seeing this."

"Guys," Peter's voice was serious. "I told you before, Davy needs support. You two can't keep on fighting like you have been. Why don't we call a truce?"

"Good idea Pete. Truce." Mike agreed.

"Truce." Micky responded, though there seemed to be a tinge of reluctance in his voice.

"So, Mike, what's the next step of your brilliant plan?" Peter's voice held a hint of sarcasm.

"Hey! The truce applies to you too!" Micky cried defensively.

"A little sarcasm never hurt anyone."

"You'd be surprised, Pete. You'd be surprised." Mike observed vaguely.

"Well, in any case, what _is_ the next step of your plan?" Peter inquired.

"Since he's upset, we're going to leave him alone. We'll steer clear of him today. Then tomorrow the three of us will go job hunting and he can prowl the pad alone."

"And what is this going to accomplish, again?" Micky's voice was permeated with richly with sarcasm.

"Nothing, necessarily. But we need to let him cool down. He's not going to tell us a thing when he's upset like this."

###

The rest of the day passed rather uneventfully for Davy. He felt pretty bad for snapping at his band mates, and they had obviously gotten the hint that he wanted to be left alone, because they didn't bother him at all. But Mike's reaction puzzled him. Why hadn't he forced him to say how he was so sure that he wouldn't need their help?

The truth was, Davy _wasn't_ sure. Not in the slightest.


	5. If I Could See You Now

_**A/N: If you want to read a little bit more about some of the nutcrackers mentioned in this chapter, check out my story "Just Yesterday". **_

Peter hadn't come into to their room all day, even at bedtime, which led Davy to assume that he'd slept in Mike and Micky's room. It eerily reminded him of the night before Chuck Holly had kidnapped him with the intent of poisoning him.

Having had his day's worth of sleeping (and nightmares) that morning, the Englishman was awake the entire night, kept up both by insomnia as well as the guilt he felt for lashing out at his band mates.

About nine o'clock he dragged himself out of bed, pondering how he might spend the day. Casting a glance out the window, he realized that it was still raining, just as hard as it had the previous day. The Brit, grimacing at the thought of going outside, sincerely hoped his fellow Monkees hadn't made any plans that would require doing such a thing.

_Well, coffee first, __then__ plans._

He began plodding down the stairs in his robe and slippers, but stopped when he heard the voices of his roommates, as he hoped not to have to associate with them today after yesterday's affair.

"So what time are we planning on getting back?" Micky asked, loudly enough so that Davy could hear him from the top of the stairs.

"Noon. We are going to check out every ad in this paper before we come back here." The Texan drawled.

"Even the ones advertising houses for sale?" Peter asked.

"Obviously not. We'll be too busy going to every place that offers a gig _twice_. Once as ourselves and once in disguise." Micky cracked.

Davy couldn't help but snicker a little. That was Micky for you. And they'd probably pull it off, too. He almost wished that he were going with them.

After a little more conversation that really wasn't of any interest to him, the Englishman heard the front door slam, and they were gone. Davy bounded down the stairs, into the kitchen, and set about preparing his coffee. Sitting down at the table, he once again thought of ways to spend the day.

_I really ought to catch up on my letter-writing. Goodness knows it's been years since I've written to anyone back in England. Except of course for Grandfather's monthly reports. Yes, I think that's what I'll do. Work on the first drafts. Then later I can drag out my old typewriter and type them up all nice and pretty. _

Satisfied with his plans, he went searching for that package of notebook paper that Micky had bought at some garage sale or another (leaving Davy wondering why on earth anyone would sell notebook paper at a garage sale), and a working pen, which was not an easy find in the pad. After placing these on the table, he went upstairs and began pawing around his dresser for his old address book. Upon finding this, he triumphantly took it back down to the kitchen.

After pouring himself a cup of coffee, he opened the small leather book.

_Who to write first?_

The names were all lined up in neat alphabetical order, just as they'd always been: Buddy Berry, Alistair Duncan, Ernie Franklin, and Harold Higgins.

Davy smiled, fondly remembering all the times he and Buddy had drunk tea in the back room of his shop, The Silver Bells. And the nutcrackers which Buddy had made every year around Christmastime were the most glorious things. Over the years, Davy had acquired quite an extensive collection, though now he questioned whether his grandfather had kept them.

Then there were Harold, Alistair, and Ernie. All four of them had been a close group, even in their earliest grammar school days. Oh, and all the grand escapades they'd gone on! Like the time they'd set off the bomb in that abandoned shack on Rogue Street. Or painting Mrs. Julep's house black while she was on holiday in France. He hadn't thought about _that_ in years.

_Gosh, I miss them. My first mates. What wonderful times we had together… _

He'd been a different person back then; a consciences worker with high marks in all his subjects, foremost studious, not sociable except in worst case scenarios, and the only one in his group of friends with even the slightest measure of common sense. And, the most obvious distinction from now was, of course, that the opposite sex had been a mystery to him then and, at that, a mystery he wasn't interested in figuring out. In fact, he'd barely known any women except for his mother and sister.

_Gosh, I haven't written to Bea since I was… seventeen? Two years? I'll write to her first. Goodness knows she must think I've forgotten her…_

Davy took his pen in hand and began writing.

_Dear Beatrice,_

_Been awhile, hasn't it? So sorry I haven't kept in touch, but the fellows and I have been kind of hard-pressed for money as of late and the bank hates me so I'm always scared to death to turn in those international reply coupons you send me. Heck, I'll probably end up pawning my typewriter to pay for the postage to send you this letter, but oh well…_

_It's so hard to believe that you're already sixteen. I know, that's what people always say, but seriously, I remember you as just a little baby. I was only three, actually, but I distinctly recall the day they brought you home. I promised to be the best older brother in the world. In any case, I'm starting to rant. _

At this point Davy's pen started to go light on him, so he pushed a little harder. The ink came out darker than he had intended in some places, but he thought nothing of it.

_**G**__randfather has made mention of the fact that you are (or is it __were__?), in true sisterly fashion, concerned about my health in the climate of California. __**I**__'__**m not ill, **__so __**you **__can rest assured of that. __**A**__nd of course, though there's always a __possibility__, __**I**__ think it rather unlikely that I'll contract any of the exotic things you've been reading up on. Then a__**g**__ain, that might just be Grandfather misinterpreting and thus causing a miscommunication of yet __another__ one of our inside j__**ok**__es, which I think is probably most likely.___

The phone rang. Davy abandoned his letter-writing and quickly sprinted into the living room to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Davy, is that you?" The Englishman recognized his grandfather's voice.

"Yes, Grandfather. Don't tell me you're going to crash the pad again."

"Davy." He said sternly. Then his voice softened and became unnaturally tearful, not to mention shaky. "Davy, I…I have to tell you something."

"What?" Davy suddenly felt uneasy. He heard the older man take a deep breath on the other end of the line.

"It's your sister. She's…she's dead."


	6. You Stare At Me In Disbelief

"Well, that's it. We've gone through every ad in this paper that might even remotely apply to us. And we were rejected every time. Let's go home." Micky suggested, leaning against the back of his seat and resting his feet on the dashboard. Mike cringed, realizing the drummer was getting mud on the car.

"Wait a second Mick. Don't you remember what you said?" The Texan asked playfully, a devilish glint in his brown eyes.

"What did I… Oh c'mon guys! I was kidding! In any case, don't you know how much disguises like that would cost?"

"Such a thing never impeded us before." Mike deadpanned.

"You're not _really_ going to hold me to that, are you?" the drummer asked, faux desperation permeating each word just a little bit more than the last.

"What makes you think we _won't_ hold you to it?" the Texan drawled, waggling his eyebrows.

"Because _true_ friends don't subject their buddies to cruel, inhuman punishment, even if they suggested it." The drummer exclaimed.

"He's right, Mike." Peter chimed in.

"Pete! You're supposed to be on my side!" Mike hissed.

"And leave inculpable Micky to your malevolent stratagem and heinous devices? Not on your life!" the keyboardist cried dramatically.

"Pete, there's nothing to get worked up over. It was only a… inculpable Micky? Malevolent stratagem and heinous devices? Now where on earth did he get that?" Mike asked, a little bewildered.

"Aw, c'mon man. Didn't you read the script?" Micky questioned impatiently, rolling his eyes. "In any case, can we go home?"

"Sure…When I start hearing Peter talk like _that_, I know I need to get some rest."

###

_No!_

The phone receiver slipped from Davy's hand. Everything seemed to stop around him. His eyes fixated themselves on the wall straight ahead, but he saw nothing.

"Davy? Davy, are you still there? I know this is a shock. You two were close. You should know that better than anyone. I'm sending along some money for a plane ticket. You need to be here by Saturday. Goodbye." The tearful voice coming from the receiver sounded distant. Davy heard a click and knew his grandfather had hung up.

The operator began crowing, but he couldn't move. He was suspended in the awful moment. Time had frozen. The ticking clock meant nothing. Pain started to break through the numbness, a horrible, sickening pain he'd felt only once before. He felt his body tighten. Breathing became difficult.

###

"Ah…Home sweet home." Peter sighed as the three approached the front door of the pad.

"Davy? Open up, would you?" Micky called, pounding on the door.

No response.

"Maybe he just went out." Peter reasoned.

"In this weather?" the drummer asked doubtfully, gesturing to the dried mud on his shoes.

"He's done it before." Mike said tersely, pulling out his key ring.

###

Someone was knocking on the door. Davy knew it.

"Davy? Open up, would you?" The voice was far-off, but distinct. Who was it?

He knew he should answer the door, but he was unable to will his limbs to move. He didn't even want to breathe, it hurt so much.

Maybe, if he held his breath for a little while, he'd feel better…

###

"Why won't this door unlock?" Mike hissed, jiggling the key, which refused to fully go into the lock.

"Mike…" Peter began.

"Not now Peter."

"But Mike…"

"Peter, not now!"

"But Mike, that's the car key."

"Why didn't you say so?" the Texan growled, jerking the offending key out of the lock and reaching for the proper one.

They entered the pad, and the first thing that reached any of their senses was the sound of a woman screeching something about hanging up the phone. Looking down, they saw that, just a few yards from where they were standing, the phone receiver was lying on the floor.

Their eyes travelled up from where it lay. And that was when they saw Davy, completely still, like a wax figure, not even looking as though he were breathing. And, just like wax figures do, he was staring ever so eerily into space.

"If you don't hang up, I will…" the furious operator began. Micky dove to put the receiver back on the hook while the other two carefully drifted toward the English boy.

"Tiny?" Mike asked, cautiously placing a hand on his younger friend's shoulder. As if on cue, the latter collapsed into a heap on the floor.

"Davy!" Mike cried, dropping quickly to his knees.

"What do you think is wrong?" Peter inquired quietly.

"I don't know. Go call the doctor. In the meantime, I'm gonna try to make him comfortable upstairs." Peter scurried off to do as he was bid.

Mike picked the unconscious Englishman up off the floor. It spookily reminded him of when Blair had poisoned him and they'd just barely saved him in time.

Davy showed no signs of regaining consciousness as Mike carried him up the stairs, but the Texan was relieved to see that he had apparently started breathing again. Yes, something was obviously very wrong, but at least he was alive.

He placed Davy on the bed and tucked him under the comforter. The younger boy's eyes flitted open for a moment.

"Look Tiny, we're calling the doctor. You'll be okay, I promise." He nodded slightly, and then his eyes closed again.

_I hope I'll be able to keep that promise, Tiny._

###

Tension had permeated the air long ago. The three Monkees were beginning to get extremely restless. Mike had been pacing for what seemed like forever and Micky and Peter were fidgeting up a storm.

Finally, the doctor emerged from Davy's room and made his way down the stairs.

"He's sleeping." Dr. Jenson jerked his thumb toward the room. "Which I would say he hasn't been doing a lot of lately."

"What do you mean?" Micky asked defensively.

"I mean that he obviously hasn't been getting enough sleep. In any case, you say you found him just staring into space when you walked in?"

"That's right." Mike answered tersely before Micky could make some crack.

"I'd say that he suffered from some kind of shock. You mentioned that the phone receiver was lying on the ground?"

"Yes. With the operator crowing up a storm." Micky offered, smiling mildly at the memory.

"Perhaps he received an upsetting phone call." The room was quiet for a moment before the doctor spoke again. "I would suggest that you speak to him when he wakes up. He muttered some rather… disturbing things while he was still awake. There seems to be something amiss and I think he'll probably be willing to confide in his closest friends more than anyone else."

"I'm not so sure about that…" Mike muttered.

"What's that?" the doctor asked tersely, unwilling to believe his ears.

"Nothing. Now, Doc, about the bill…"

The older man's face softened a little. "Don't worry about that Mike. I know your bankroll is rather small at the moment. I won't expect you to pay it until you're able. But, gentlemen," he cleared his throat. "I want you to talk to him. Get the whole story, if you can. When I was in medical school, I lived in a little place similar to this with three other students. We were really quite a close group. But you see, one of the other fellows was being harassed through anonymous letters. But he never spoke to anyone about it. Then he received a shocking phone call and he just went over the edge. He ended up killing himself."

Dr. Jenson took a breath. "It was extremely hard to lose him. I'd never want you boys to have to go through something like that. But…but I think Davy might be in that zone."


	7. With A Little Help From My Friends

After the doctor took his leave of them, some of the panic that had been suppressed while he was still present finally began to emerge.

"_That _zone? Oh…what if… what if he…" Micky bit his knuckle fearfully.

"Did he mean that Davy was going to…to…" Peter tearfully stuttered, making it sound as if saying what they all knew Doc Jenson had meant would make it even more likely to happen.

Mike's mask of calm was beginning to fade as he started to think of the possibilities.

_I can't go to pieces. I've got to be strong enough for all three of us…_

The Texan cleared his throat. "Well…well…we all know Davy would never do something like that. I mean…he just… wouldn't."

"But what if he did? I'd…I'd never be able to live it down!" Micky's face went into his hands.

"C'mon Mick. We know Davy. He's just not the suicidal type." Mike's voice quivered as he said it, despite trying to keep it anywhere near strong.

_NO! Whatever I do, I can't lose faith!_

A knock sounded.

"Maybe Doc Jenson forgot something." Peter quickly started in the direction of the door, not even bothering to look to see who it was.

As he opened it, two policemen, one slender, the other burly, plodded into the pad.

"We're here to see a Mr. David Jones" the former said in what Micky thought was a surprisingly eloquent voice.

"Well, I'm sorry, he's taken ill." Mike instinctively stepped forward.

"Oh?" the other officer responded gruffly. "With what?"

"Severe shock."

"Oh c'mon. You can't take ill with _shock_." The burly one growled.

"Jim." The other warned. He turned to the boys. "George Roberts. And this is my colleague, Jim Franklin." Officer Roberts held out his hand.

Mike firmly grasped it. "Michael Nesmith."

"In all honesty, Mr. Nesmith, I don't blame your friend for taking ill. After assaulting that police officer like he did yesterday…" Sarcasm tinted Officer Franklin's voice.

"_What?_" Micky interrupted.

"Assault is a strong word." The Texan responded coolly, ignoring the drummer's short memory. "What exactly did he do?"

"Only land Officer Healy in the hospital with a concussion. After we fished him out of the gutter, that is." The burly man snarled.

Mike raised his eyebrows. "Have you ever seen Davy? He couldn't land a _squirrel _in the hospital with a concussion."

"No Mike. It's true." A ghostly voice sounded from the top of the stairs.

Every head in the room turned.

"Davy!" Peter exclaimed.

"I thought Doc Jenson had sedated you." Micky cocked an eyebrow at his younger friend, who had begun to descend the stairs.

The Englishman smiled vaguely. "Not thanks to that great medication resistor drug you invented."

"Micky…" Mike and Peter ejaculated in unison.

"What?" the drummer held up his hands.

Davy finished coming down the stairs and took his place next to Mike.

"Glad you could join us Jones. Obviously the shock wasn't _too _great." Officer Franklin sneered.

"Jim, would you let me handle this?" Officer Roberts growled.

Davy looked a tad bewildered. "Shock?"

"We'll explain it later." Mike whispered, wishing the officers would just get out of the pad.

Hearing Mike say this, Officer Franklin smirked. "There won't _be_ a later. You committed an assault. I'm afraid I'll have to take you in."

"_What?_" Davy demanded, his face being washed over by a look that indicated he'd just remembered something. "You can't take me in! I have to be in Manchester, England by this Saturday!"

Somewhat puzzled by this last remark but not really caring at the moment, the Texan practically shoved his younger friend behind him. "Do you have any witnesses?"

"Officer Healy should know what happened to him, and your buddy here just admitted it. What more do you want?"

"Just what happened, Davy?" Micky demanded urgently.

"Well, I…"

"He admitted it! Don't question him!" screeched Officer Franklin.

"Don't listen to them, Davy. Just keep talking." The drummer instructed placidly, leaving Peter to wonder how Micky and Mike were able to act so calm in the face of such adversity.

"Well, I'm going down the street with my newspaper and I hear someone say, 'Hey, he's in with that Holly guy.' I turn around and some officer is right on my tail. I try to run, but I slip in this mud puddle. Before I can get up, he starts punching me and I try to put up a fight. I'm wet and muddy and bleeding all over when I can finally push him into the gutter and make a run for it."

"Aha!" Micky exclaimed triumphantly. "The definition," he cleared his throat. "Of assault, is, and I quote 'an unlawful threat or unsuccessful attempt to do physical harm to another, causing a present fear of immediate harm'. This, gentlemen, was obviously a case of self-defense. Davy was not _attempting_ to do physical harm to Officer Healy. He was merely trying to protect himself and the gutter coincidentally served as an ally."

Officer Roberts turned to his colleague. "He has a point, Jim. Healy wasn't in his right mind when he related this to us. And remember that he's new, and kind of nervous. Possibly prone to exaggeration."

"But Geo, we can't walk out of here just because a kid who probably can't legally smoke goes memorizing the dictionary."

"I could too smoke!" Micky protested.

"Mr. Jones's version definitely seemed more rational than that mess Healy gave us. We have no evidence that it wasn't a case of self-defense." He turned to the boys. "We're sorry for disturbing you gentlemen. Thank you for your cooperation."

"Hey," Micky began. "If this officer lives up to his name, he should be just fine."

"Huh?" Peter asked, completely puzzled.

"_Heal_y." Micky responded, slipping back into his jester mode.

The joke was poorly received by everyone else in the room.

"C'mon, Geo." Officer Franklin growled.

And with that, the two of them left the pad, slamming the door behind them.

Mike leapt to lock it. "Thank goodness Officer Roberts was on our side."

"And thank goodness Micky knew the definition of 'assault'. I thought for sure I _had_ committed one." Davy chimed in.

The drummer shrugged. "My father's a lawyer."

"Speaking of things we _are_," The Texan cleared his throat. "What's this about you being bound for Manchester, Davy?"

The contented look on the young Englishman's face vanished.

"Did you have to bring that up?" he asked quietly.

"Davy." Mike's voice held a note of warning.

"Has Gramps become even more insistent that you come home?" Micky whooped dramatically, pretending to faint and in the process eliciting the Texan's worst death glare.

"I think I liked you better as the human law book." He snapped, turning back to Davy.

"There are some questions you need to answer. And doggone it you're going to answer them now!"


	8. Don't Sit In Your Lonely Room

Even though Davy would rather have suffered through all his nightmares infinitely than answer anything that the others might ask him, he knew he couldn't opt out. Arguing with Mike was pointless. He could be more stubborn than Davy liked to think about if he set his mind to it. Not to mention that the others would be backing him up, and three against never turned out well for Davy. It vaguely reminded him of genetics; the dominant gene _always _shows up, if it's there, winning out over the recessive gene, which can only show up if the dominant gene isn't present, which isn't most of the time.

"Couldn't we at least go someplace…comfortable?" he gulped desperately, hoping to stall their questioning as long as humanly possible.

Mike nodded shortly and started blazing a trail to the living room.

Once there, Davy stiffly sat down on the couch, knowing that by the time they were finished with him he'd be more grilled than a burnt piece of tilapia.

Peter and Micky stationed themselves on one side of him, and Mike did the same on the other.

_Gosh I'm stupid! If only I hadn't let that comment about Manchester slip, I wouldn't be in this awful mess…_

But then, what had he expected? He hadn't concealed all that had been happening as well as he should have been, that was for sure. Suddenly showing an attraction to coffee. Not putting something on his face to hide the bags under his eyes. Coming in through the front door the day he'd gotten into the fight with the policeman instead of sneaking in through a window or something. And _crying_ no less. Letting what was better left bottled up find an outlet.

_Why do I have to wear my heart on my sleeve all the time? It does nothing but make the others worry about me. Which I don't __want__._

By now Manchester was probably a moot point.

He'd learned the hard way that they weren't going to just let him go if he snuck out. Escaping the pad _with_ his luggage _without_ them noticing would be virtually impossible. _Then_ they'd put him through the third degree, demanding to know wherehe was going. If he told them…well, he shuddered to think.

No, he couldn't go. Not now. He'd just have to call Grandfather and say it was all too painful. He'd at least be telling _part_ of the truth. Even though it would have been the perfect opportunity, he'd obviously have to wait for another, because with them knowing it just wouldn't work out…

_Why did I ever think having such overprotective, nosy friends was a good idea? All they do is manage to find ways to get involved in __my__ affairs where they aren't welcome…_

Well, he might as well resign himself. Then maybe the grilling would be a little more…gentle.

"Who first?" he questioned his band mates dully.

"Me." Mike declared confidently. He looked his younger friend straight in the eyes. "Why have you been drinking so much coffee lately?"

"But that doesn't have anything to do with Manchester." Peter protested.

"Be quiet, Peter!" Mike snapped, unaware of the keyboardist's lip starting to tremble as soon as he turned away.

"Nightmares. I didn't want to sleep." Davy responded tersely.

"What kind of nightmares?" the Texan inquired.

"You know, making my own noose with Blair looming over me. Or being pushed off a cliff. The worst one was where he killed my sister."

There was something in Davy's tone as that last sentence left his mouth -the detachment, maybe- that disturbed Mike. As if he didn't feel even a twinge of pain at the idea of his own sister being dead, whether it was just a dream or not…

"For how long?"

Davy looked away. "Three months."

"And you didn't feel it was necessary to tell us about this?"

"No."

"And why?"

"I wasn't being harmed. There seemed no to reason to bother you about it." Davy's voice was still eerily free from all emotion.

Mike gaped at his best friend in complete disbelief.

"How can you say you weren't being harmed? Tiny, the body needs sleep. Caffeine is no substitute. Do you know how sick you could have made yourself?"

"Sometimes I'd stay up until a quarter of one studying for exams when I was in school. That never hurt me." The Englishman still refused to look at the other three.

"But Tiny, did you have exams every single day for three months?" The Texan asked pointedly.

He was met by nothing but harsh silence.

Sensing that his younger friend wouldn't be responsive as of right now, the Texan decided to close the subject for the time being. "Well, we'll get back to that later. In the meantime, who's next?"

"Me." Micky didn't speak with as much confidence as Mike had, but there was a fair amount in his voice. "Umm… Why didn't you say anything about getting into a fight with the policeman? You could have at least told us the police might be stopping in. Let us prepare a little more, maybe."

"I didn't feel like it. And I don't really feel like discussing it, either."

"Tough luck. _We_ feel like you're keeping secrets from us." Peter chimed in strongly, his trembling lip having recovered during Mike's spiel about the importance of sleep.

"And why on earth shouldn't I? I'm nineteen years old, you know. I don't have to tell you three every little thing. You act like I can't take care of myself. Which I am perfectly capable of doing, by the way." He cleared his throat. "As you can see, I've gotten by perfectly well without any help from you up to this point. You guys _seriously_ overrate yourselves."

"Davy," Vehemence rose in Mike's voice, the Englishman's last remark stinging like lemon juice on a cut. "Who was it who saved you from having to go back to England with your grandfather? Or from all those girls you've gotten mixed up with? And how about when you were in the garage, tied up, and Blair was about to start the car? Who cared enough to knock him out and untie you so you could escape? Then later, when he injected you with that fatal poison, who was it that took you to the hospital? Who fought over the syringe so he couldn't inject more poison to potentially kill you more quickly, and then ended up getting poisoned too? Who was it who found a nurse and assisted in administering the antidote in the nick of time, just so you could live? That was all us, Davy. If it weren't for us and what we did, do you know what you'd be? Probably dead. Or back in England, stuck in a miserable marriage because you weren't ready to settle down, to commit."

Davy face reddened. "I'd never marry a girl if I wasn't completely sure I _wouldn't_ be miserable with her! Besides, at least I'd have my sister!" he blurted out before a horrified look washed over his face.

Whatever anger Mike still had left evaporated immediately as his younger friend choked out a sob. It was an awful noise, permeated by the abstract but nonetheless horrible sound of pain.

"Tiny?" he asked cautiously as the Englishman released another moan.

"Davy… Davy, talk to us!" Micky ordered, sounding like a drill sergeant in the movies. Mike gave him a withering look, shocked and somewhat annoyed by the drummer's inability to comprehend the seriousness of the situation.

"I got a phone call today. From Grandfather. Bea…she's…she's dead." All traces of entitlement or detachment in the Davy's voice were gone.

Mike drew in a sharp breath, the pressure of severe guilt already beginning to build up inside him.

_What have I done? How could I lose my temper at him when he needed us most? _

"Grandfather's sending money for a plane ticket. I've got to be there by…by …Saturday." Davy buried his face in the back of the sofa, not wanting the others to see his tears. His whimpers, though somewhat muffled, still came through clear enough to convey the pain he was in.

The three other Monkees exchanged worried but helpless glances.

_What can we do for him? _The Texan guitarist thought desperately, clamoring for something -anything- he could do or say to even slightly alleviate his younger friend's suffering.

"Davy, I'm…" he began.

And then, all at once, everything seemed to click in his mind.

"Tiny," he cleared his throat. "We're going with you."


	9. Sometimes I'd Like to Quit

Mike ignored the _what on earth are you talking about? _way that that Micky and Peter were gaping at him and instead turned to Davy's curled up form.

"Davy…"

"No." the Brit spat, his voice no longer heavy with tearfulness but instead permeated by angry disgust.

Mike raised his eyebrows. "I haven't said anything yet."

"You're _not_ going to England with me."

"And why not?" the Texan inquired coolly, trying to keep from smirking at the horrified but nonetheless hilarious looks that Micky and Peter were giving him.

The room was silent.

"Do I have to have a reason?" Davy snapped at long last, still refusing to face them.

"Well if you don't your defense is downright pathetic." Mike deadpanned mildly.

"Look guys," Davy's voice softened a little, but not nearly enough to remove the venom from it. "This is just something I have to work through alone. Would you please respect that?"

"Davy, if you think we're going to let you fly to England alone in the state you're in, you've got something else coming. Heck, if the plane crashed you probably wouldn't even try to save yourself. I bet you'd just sit back and let yourself die." The Texan stated firmly.

"Sounds like a good idea." This time the Englishman's voice radiated another kind of poison, a bitter one that assured his three friends that, if given the opportunity, he might very well do such a thing. "Besides, what do you care? If I died you'd go on. What difference would it make to you?" His voice was detached and astringent.

"Tiny, how can you say that?" Mike demanded, aghast.

"It's something called talking. You open your mouth, activate your vocal chords, and you say something. Shall I demonstrate?" The Englishman queried mirthlessly.

"Davy, look at me." The Texan ordered tersely.

Reluctantly, the percussionist turned his head, gazing the guitarist right in the eye.

Seeing Davy's eyes was painful for Mike. It was as though the very life had gone out of them. Instead of the alert cheeriness that always seemed to be in the clear chocolate pools now was replaced by bitterness and hurt.

But, really, what had he expected? His sister had just died. Mike knew that if his older sister, Scarlett, or his younger sister, Faith, died, he would be in immeasurable pain.

_I'm such an insensitive dolt!_

"Davy," the Texan guitarist began, struggling to keep his voice even. "Don't you remember a certain promise you made to us? Maybe the one about never running away from us again?"

"Have I made any attempts?" he asked, bitterness permeating his voice in an ugly fashion.

"Successful ones, in fact." Micky chimed in. "When we made you promise that, we meant running away, period. Not just physically. Don't you see Davy? You've hidden all of this from us. We might have been able to help. But you ran away from us." Mike shot Micky a grateful look. For all the dumb things he had done, the drummer had redeemed himself here.

During the course of Micky's spiel, Davy's face had turned from pure disgust to extreme helplessness and bewilderment.

Finally, he said quietly, "You never said that."

"But we implied it." Micky countered.

"Implications, implications." He muttered. "The point is, you're _not_ going with me. If I had my way you wouldn't even know."

"Davy," Mike cleared his throat. "Say this was me. Say that I'd been having horrible nightmares for three months and been drinking coffee in excess amounts just to stay half alert. And say one of my sisters had died. Would you want me to just bottle it all up, not tell you guys about it?"

"You wouldn't say anything. We know you."

"_That's_ beside the point. Would you _want_ me to?"

Silence.

"Is _that_ why you're doing this? Is it because you want to be like me?"

"Don't count on it, Newkirk." The Englishman snapped.

"Hey, if you want to talk about _Newkirk_, change the channel." Micky deadpanned.

If looks could kill, at that moment Micky would have been nothing more than a little pile of ashes, possibly accompanied by a funny bone to set him apart from all the other people who had met their demise thanks to one of Mike's glares.

The Texan turned back to Davy. "Tiny, you know very well that it is _Nesmith_ and not _Newkirk_."

"Do I?" he asked mirthlessly.

"Davy…" Despite his efforts to control it, the anger in Mike's voice was rapidly rising. "Snap out of it! I know you must be hurting right now. Goodness knows if I lost one of my sisters I wouldn't feel like going on. But you have to. Your family needs you. And you need us."

"I don't _need_ anyone, you…you…_clod_."

Clod. Just that one word, coming from Davy, stung.

Peter and Micky's expressions no longer carried a quality of hilarity. They just showed pure horror.

"Fine," the Texan continued, his voice becoming completely emotionless. "Don't even think about us. Think about what your sister would want."

"What does Bea have to do with this?" he queried impatiently.

"Let me count the ways." Micky replied dryly.

"If it weren't for her, you wouldn't be going to England." Peter chimed in.

"So? She's dead? What does it matter what she would want?"

"Davy, if you were dead, what would you want for your sister?" Mike snapped.

The question seemed to catch the Brit off-guard. He paused for a moment before spitting, "I don't know! I'd be dead."

"Let me put it another way Tiny. Would you want her to hurt eternally? Would you want her to have absolutely no one she could go to?"

"She'd have Grandfather and Penelope."

"That's not the point!" the Texan vociferated.

_There's no point in trying to get through to him. He's just being too darn thick…_

Mike looked to Micky and Peter desperately, hoping one of them would say something. _Anything. _

"Just what is the point, then?" Davy demanded sharply.

"Would want your sister's friends to abandon her in her darkest hour?" By now the Texan was yelling, and though somehow he knew that excess volume probably wouldn't help penetrate the wall Davy had built up around himself, he couldn't control it, as much as he knew he ought to.

"What friends?" Davy snorted. "She never had any friends. Always happier alone, with a book. Or a record, just as long as it wasn't Buddy Holly, Elvis, or Chuck Berry. She _hated_ them." A vague smile worked its way into his lips and for a moment he looked like his old self again. But, as quickly as it had come about, it vanished and his face returned to its former grim expression.

"Look fellows, just face it. You're not going with me." And with that, the Englishman leapt to his feet and evacuated the room.

"Wow." Micky said quietly. "We're just not getting through to him."

A grin spread over Mike's face.

"But we will."


	10. And Sorrow's Turned Your Heart to Frost

Micky cocked an eyebrow at the Texan. "Well, you certainly seem confident." He commented dryly. "Tell us of your scheme."

Mike looked almost comically like a deer in the headlights.

"Uh…well…um…you see…"

"Just say it Mike." The drummer commanded. "You didn't _really_ have a plan."

"Well…well... I was…just… trying to lighten things up a little." The Texan muttered.

"Since when do you ever try to lighten things up? You're the group cynic, man." Micky chastised lightly.

"And since when do you take on the role of making sure everyone else is doing their job? Last I checked you never do yours." The Texan deadpanned bitterly.

"Uh…guys…" Peter began. "Didn't we call a…"

"Stay out of this, Peter." Mike snapped.

"_Truce_." Peter finished with extra emphasis, paying no heed to his fellow guitarist's order. "Look, you guys seem to be locking horns every time the slightest stressful thing happens to us. We need to work together." He gazed at them imploringly. "Please. We've already lost Davy. And I don't really want to have to pick sides."

A period of seemingly endless silence followed the blonde's statement.

Micky finally spoke, though in an uncharacteristically quiet voice.

"Mike, you do realize that was just a joke, don't you?"

The brunette guitarist sighed. "No Mick. I didn't. You sounded dead serious."

"Mike _c'mon_. When _I_ sound dead serious, it _has_ to be a joke, right? I'd think you'd know that by now."

The Texan shrugged. "Sorry. Where I grew up, people sounded dead serious when they were dead serious and not otherwise."

"Well," Micky began, "Where _I _grew up, people sounded dead serious when they _weren't_ dead serious and not otherwise."

Mike just shook his head. "I've heard they've raised some strange ones here in California, but I'm only just beginning to realize _how_ strange…"

"So… is everything back to normal?" Peter queried innocently.

"Sure is, Pete. Except for Davy, that is…" The Texan guitarist trailed off.

"Well, we could just…oh my fudge!" Micky exclaimed. "I know what we can do!"

Mike bit back the temptation to parody Micky's earlier statement about sounding confident and instead looked at the drummer quizzically.

"Shoot."

"Do guys remember when I asked for your relatives' phone numbers?" The other two nodded wisely.

"Well, I also managed to get Davy's grandfather's phone number. I can call him up, explain how torn apart Davy is, maybe exaggerating just a_ little, _and convince Gramps that Davy _needs_ us to come with him. Then he'll call up and _order_ him to let us tag along. Hey, we might even get plane fair."

Mike raised his eyebrows for a moment. "That's actually a good idea, Micky. Especially in this time of grieving, when he may almost wish to revert to the ways of childhood, he will no doubt feel subordinate to his grandfather."

"Uh…what he said." Peter responded blankly.

"Groo_vy_! I'll go get the phone. Now where did I hide it?" the drummer started to exit the room before he was stopped by Mike's voice.

"Micky," he started casually, "By the way. What did you end up doing with those phone numbers?"

He shrugged. "I prank called them. Collect."

"That's it! _I'll_ do the calling."

"But Mike…" the brunette started to object.

"No buts." The Texan replied placidly. Then he cracked a smile. "I would have loved to see the look on Aunt Kate's face when you asked her if her refrigerator was running."

"Since I've humored you so, can I make the call?" Micky demanded eagerly.

"No."

"Aw, man. Do you have some objection to fun? No, wait. Don't answer that." The drummer slunk out of the room, his head hanging.

Mike turned to Peter.

"You think I was too hard on him?"

"Yes. I mean, no. Well…maybe a little. It all depends on…"

Mike rolled his eyes, and then started toward the staircase to begin his own search for the phone they constantly relocated.

"Never mind Peter. Never mind."

###

_Rrriiinnnggg!_

_Oh please be there. _Mike thought desperately. Maybe this idea of Micky's was a bit manipulative, but it was the only hope they had.

_Rrriiinnnggg!_

Gosh, where could Gramps be? Davy had said that at his house it was rare for the phone to finish with the _first_ ring before someone answered it.

_Rrriiinnn…_

"Hello?" a gentle, feminine voice with a heavy British accent responded.

_Doggone it! Did Micky get the wrong number?_

"Hello. Umm…is this the Felix Jones residence?"

"Yes, it is."

"Well, could I…I mean, is the man of the house…?"

"Would you like to speak with Mr. Jones?" Mike sighed in relief at the woman's understanding and wondered if this kind of thing happened often.

"Yes please."

"Who shall I say is calling?"

He cleared his throat. "Michael Nesmith."

"Just a moment, Mr. Nesmith."

The Texan took a breath, trying to remind himself that Davy's grandfather had more or less given them his seal of approval when he'd visited.

_Mike, don't get worked up. The worst he can do is yell at you…_

"Hello? Mr. Nesmith?"

"Yes," he began. "I mean, yeah. That's me. Listen, I don't know if you remember me, but I'm one of your grandson's friends that you met when you came over from the Mo-England." Mike was able to cut himself off from sarcastically calling England "the Mother Country", though he still remembered Gramps referring to America as "the colonies".

"And?" The voice on the other end of the line was tart and impatient.

"Well, I heard about Davy's sister dying, and he's pretty torn up about it…"

"Of course he's torn up about it! Even if they hadn't been as close as they were, she was still his sister. Is this call going to be at all constructive? Because if not, I'm hanging up. _Now._"

"Mr. Jones, I assure you that this call is completely intended to be constructive and that what you have heard so far is nothing more than a preface for the rest of my statement."

"Oh." The Englishman seemed to be caught off-guard. "Well, in that case, proceed."

"Well, like I said, he's terribly upset. Not quite in his right mind, either. The doctor said he might even…commit suicide." Mike realized that he wouldn't need to exaggerate anything. The raw facts were scary enough.

"What? Davy?! I refuse to believe it! What are you trying to do, cause us even more pain during this time?"

"No! Not at all. You see, it's just that…well… I just wouldn't want him travelling all the way to England alone in the state he's in. So…Peter, Micky, and I would like to go with him."

"What's stopping you?"

"Him. And we were wondering if you would make a phone call and convince him to let us come."

"His parents had just died when he travelled over to the colonies alone. I know and I think _he_ knows can manage a trip back to England."

"Mr. Jones, with all due respect, I'd just like to know how many times you found him staring into space, not breathing after his parents' deaths."

"Never. What makes you ask that?"

"Because we found him in such a state today when we got home from job hunting. The phone receiver was lying on the floor; he showed no signs of responsiveness. Like…a wax figure. Then he collapsed."

"You _really_ expect me to believe that?"

"Sir, what motive would I have for lying?"

"I have no idea! And frankly, I don't care to think about it either. Goodbye."

"Wait." Mike commanded calmly, though he was inwardly panicking, trying to think of the right thing to say.

"Look, I'm sorry you feel that way. It was just a thought we had. Since Chuck Holly's on the loose again, we figured he could use a little extra protection. But I see you have enough faith that he can manage on his own. Well, good…"

"WHAT?!" Mr. Jones' ejaculation was so loud that Mike could almost feel the phone shake in his hand. "Chuck Holly's on the loose?! Oh my gosh! I will _not_ have Davy travelling alone as long as that vicious murderer isn't locked up. Hang up, Nesmith. I'll make the call right now."

For once, Mike was glad to comply. "Aye, aye, sir."


	11. I Should Never Have Crossed

"But Grandfather!" Davy whined.

True to his word, Mr. Jones had called asking for Davy almost immediately after receiving Mike's call. The Texan's only hope was that he hadn't called collect, because, based on what he heard of Davy's end of the conversation, they were going to be on the phone for a while.

"I can't let them come! This is supposed to be a little family affair! That's what Bea would have wanted!" the young Englishman continued vehemently.

Mike quietly slipped into the kitchen and sat down at the table, where Micky and Peter were sitting sorting baseball cards. The drummer looked up from the task.

"How's it going?"

Mike shook his head. "Davy's putting up some kind of fight. Isn't it kind of weird that his grandfather is on _our_ side this time?"

"Yeah, it is." Micky replied. "Man, I wish we had another line so we could listen in. Tell us, how did you end up convincing the old coot that Davy needs us to come with him?"

"'The old coot' is hardly a way to refer to one of our allies. Tsk tsk, Micky." Mike chastised mildly.

"Sorry. But really, how did you do it?" the drummer insisted.

"Oh, I just made an off-handed remark about Chuck Holly being on the loose and Gramps went into frantic mother hen mode." Micky and Mike shared an appreciative snicker.

"So that's how you did it." A bitter voice came from the doorway. All three heads in the room swiveled to face the speaker, though they knew very well who it was.

"Why Davy, I thought you were still on the phone." Mike commented casually, turning back to the table, picking up a handful of baseball cards, and beginning to quickly sort them into random piles.

"Oh don't try to be so natural. You're making me sick. Really, I didn't think you guys would go as low as _that_. Manipulating my grandfather into making me take you with me. And getting him to pay your plane fare no less! That was just a lowdown dirty trick. But I suppose now I _have_ to take you with me, since I promised Grandfather I would. Even that was just to get him off the phone. And as a gentleman, I guess I must honor that promise."

"Um, why not just hang up on him? That's the easy way out. Besides, there's nothing stopping you from calling him back and saying you changed your mind." Micky went back to his baseball cards in a similar fashion to Mike.

"Grandfather would never forgive me if I hung up on him! And you know the state of our phone bill as well as I do, and, well, I just _couldn't_ call my own family _collect_. Though that's what you…_fiends_…probably did."

"They're not our family. We don't run into that problem." The drummer countered dryly.

"In any case, 'fiends' is being rather mild don't you think? Why not 'clods', like before? And furthermore, Davy, we weren't aware that he was paying our plane fare." Mike responded earnestly. Davy fixed a death glare on the guitarist.

"How else were you planning to pay for it?" he demanded coldly.

Silence.

"No, wait, sorry. There was only one clod. Me." he corrected his earlier statement placidly.

Davy's eyes hardened. "What did you mean 'like before'?"

"Oh, you know. Before you went upstairs in a frenzy. Right, Mick?"

"Right." Micky agreed.

"Mike did I…I didn't…I did…"

The mask -it had to be a mask- on his face, of aloofness and indifference, was starting to fade.

The other three Monkees looked up at him and nodded.

"You did." Their voices chorused.

Davy's eyes widened.

"Mike, I called you a cl…cl…cl…?" Somehow, he couldn't utter the rest of the word. It just stuck in his mouth, like a lump of the wax those little bottles with colored sugar water in them are made of. At first it's fun to chew, but then it just plain begins exhausting your jaws, and, if you're lucky enough to be within proximity of a trash can, you hardly have the energy to spit out.

Then, all at once, the words just started tumbling, overlapping in a way that made what he was saying nearly incoherent.

"Oh my gosh! What was I thinking? I didn't mean it, honest. Oh, I'm such a…."

The Texan held up his hand. "Tiny, I'm not blaming you. After such a blow I'm not sure you can really be held accountable for any of your actions. Except maybe for rejecting our help."

Davy's remorseful expression dissolved almost instantly and was replaced by one of annoyance. "I guess you're going to start up again about that promise I made. Well, you can lecture Micky and Peter. I'm going. And, oh, by the way," he cleared his throat. "I am and will be held accountable for _all_ my actions. Clod." He disappeared from the doorway.

Micky again looked up from his baseball cards.

"It seems so wrong that you're getting the brunt of this, Mike. You're his best friend. But he's attacking you more than Pete and me combined."

"Familiarity breeds contempt." The Texan replied tersely, tossing his clump of baseball cards onto the table and inadvertently knocking over one of Peter's neat stacks.

"Hey!" the other guitarist snapped.

"Sorry." Mike muttered. Then, in a louder voice, he continued his previous thought.

"Look, Mick, if you were hurting terribly, who would you be more likely to take it out on, me, Davy, or Pete?"

The drummer thought for a moment before responding carefully, "Right _now_, I'd take it out on Davy just because he's acting like such an idiot. But, normally, as much as I hate to say it, I guess I'd probably take it out on Pete. I mean, it's just that…" Looking as though he were struggling to find the right words to say, Mike just gave him a small smile.

"I know what you're getting at. But it's not the fact that he's taking out on me that bothers me so much. After all, what are friends for? Besides, I have thick skin. I can handle it, even if sometimes what he says does sting a little. What's so painful for me is to see the way he's digging himself deeper and deeper in but refuses our help. I'm just about ready to give up on him."

Both Micky and Peter's eyes bugged out as they gaped at their friend.

"_What?_" the drummer demanded.

The Texan guitarist held up both hands. "I give up. This is all my fault, and now by messing with it I'm just making it all worse. We have plane fare to England. What else should we want?"

"How is it your fault? What did you do?" Micky demanded.

"I didn't get what was happening out of him sooner. I didn't monitor him carefully enough after our last confrontation with Blair. I didn't offer to go get the newspaper the day they reported him escaping from prison. I might have saved Davy some of the shock, the pain. This is my fault on so many levels."

Micky knew this was a time when he needed to step into the role of leader, unfamiliar reflex though it was.

"Mike, get a hold of yourself! This isn't your fault at all. You didn't know he'd be this stubborn, or that he wouldn't bounce right back after we met up with Blair. And there was no way in the world you could have known what the headline would be that day. Stop beating up on yourself because you aren't an oracle."

Mike just shook his head, stood up, and left the room.


	12. Or Myself That I Cry

_**A/N: Personal reasons require that I begin updating on Sundays; thanks for understanding!**_

The kitchen was hushed for what seemed like forever after Mike left. At first, Micky and Peter tried to keep themselves occupied by continuing to sort baseball cards, but such efforts were soon abandoned, which only added to the heaviness of the room's silence. Eventually Micky exasperatedly leapt out of his seat and began pacing.

"Well that's great. Just great. First Davy turns against us. Then Mike starts blaming this all on himself. All we wanted to do was help. But stubborn old Davy is making such a point not to let us. And Mike has to go and act like such an older brother figure and say everything's his fault. And now it's just me and a nitwit I call my best friend…"

"What?" he heard a choked voice ask.

The drummer hadn't even realized that he'd been speaking aloud. He looked to Peter's face. Not angry, not at all, but hurt beyond all measure. The blonde appearing to be stubbornly blinking back tears.

_No, please Pete, don't cry…_

Now he wished more than anything that he could take the last words that had exited his mouth back.

"Pete, I…" he began.

"No. Never mind. I heard you." Peter said coldly, trying not to let his voice succumb to tearfulness. "And I can see I'm not wanted here." He sprang out of his chair and started in the direction of the door.

Horrified, Micky yelled desperately, "Pete, wait!"

As the guitarist's eyes turned to Micky, they burned with an uncharacteristic bitterness.

"What?" he growled.

All of a sudden a sick feeling came over the brunette, the kind he used to get at school when he realized that he'd forgotten his homework.

_I didn't mean it! I just didn't! Everyone knows he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he makes up for it! What have I done?_

"I…I didn't mean it. I was just…upset and…I…I wasn't thinking…"

Peter didn't say anything; he just stepped forward so that he was face to face with the drummer. He brought up his hand.

What happened next was all a blur lost in the brunette's panic. Peter's hand started travelling at what seemed like the speed of light towards Micky's cheek. Shock had the drummer too paralyzed to move away, even flinch, or do anything but pray that the guitarist wouldn't hit him _too_ hard. He closed his eyes, waiting to hear the slap and feel his face begin to throb.

But it didn't come.

The brunette hesitantly peeled his eyes open for fear the guitarist was strategically planning to deck him there.

But the rush of motion that had tyrannized his vision only a moment before had come to a complete standstill.

Peter was still there, his hand elevated just centimeters away from the surface of the drummer's cheek.

Then it dropped. And the blonde gave into his impending tears.

"No, no, NO! I couldn't do it!" he wailed. "Even if you'd killed all the others, _and_ my family, I could _never _hit my best friend."

"Pete, I…I…" the brunette stuttered.

Great. Now, just when he needed them, Micky was at a loss for words.

"You're right. I _am_ a nitwit. I don't deserve to be friends with you and Mike and Davy. I shouldn't be living here and spending your guys' money. Why don't I just go throw myself in front of a bus?"

The drummer's panic set in as Peter finished his last sentence.

_No! I…I didn't! Now he's thinking that he's not worth __anything__…oh my gosh! What have I done? NO! NO! NO!_

He was hyperventilating, attempting to keep himself calm but doing anything but succeeding in the process. Taking a deep breath was impossible, so he just started talking a mile a minute, only vaguely aware of the words coming out of his mouth.

"Peter, don't do this to me! You're sounding just like Davy and Mike! They've both just given up. But you can't give up too! Don't leave me alone in this, or I'll probably just give up too. The group could fall apart. We're so used to Mike being strong for all of us. But now, _we_ need to be strong for all of us. Don't make me do that by myself. Please." That last word held a note of despair.

Peter looked at the drummer blankly for a moment before his face fell.

"The group could fall apart?" he repeated quietly.

"Yeah."

It wasn't something that Micky had ever really thought about before, the idea that _someday _they wouldn't be the Monkees as they were now. At some point, _something _would -_had_- to come between them, be it a girl, a death, some new opportunity, and things would never go back to being the way that they had been. Hoping it would stay this way forever would be irrational.

Maybe this was it. Perhaps they should just let it run its course.

"But Micky, we _can't_ break up. I don't _want_ us to break up. Remember when we all sang 'Happy Together' after Blair got carted off to jail? That's the way we are. Happy together. Besides, where would we all go? It was originally Mike's beach house, so we'd need to go somewhere else."

"I know Pete. I know."

But Micky's thoughts were far from where they would live if the group broke up. He'd sleep on a park bench every night if he had to; he didn't particularly care.

It was not the loss of shelter that would hurt the most. One could become accustomed to the elements, and California's weather wasn't terrible, anyway.

What would be most painful would be losing what the four of them had built together; a good band and a solid friendship. Gone would be the late nights spent watching movie marathons and making themselves sick on popcorn. Gone every exasperating new crush that Davy developed and helping him win the girl, even if she'd be gone by the next week. Gone all the shenanigans to divert Mr. Babbitt. Gone the fun.

Gone the laughter.

Micky knew there would be good times with others friends if they all decided to go their separate ways. But by no means would it be the same.

_Why am I even thinking about this? Mike or Davy didn't say anything about leaving the group. _

And the worst part was, that, at the present time, they _weren't _really "happy together". Davy really didn't want to have anything to do with any of them and Mike, since he had officially announced that he had "given up", would no doubt become quite reclusive, as he had in the past. Never before in their friendship had there been so much indifference, so much ignorance, and so little speaking.

_We're breaking down, little by little. And if we keep it up, someday everything'll collapse. _


	13. Monkee Suspicion In 10 Easy Lessons

Davy expelled a miserable breath and rolled over on his bed once again.

_I __can't__ let them go. It would be so much better, so much easier, to say goodbye here, rather than there. I'm not doing this just to prove that I don't need to be dependent on them; I'm trying to make sure that none of us gets hurt. But what am I supposed to say? It wouldn't be so hard if I could say an optimistic goodbye here, and then give them a ring once I'm in England and tell them then…This is something I've wanted to do for a while. Bea's death gives me the perfect excuse. And as long as I __have__ to go, I might as well do it now. But since they're not going to let me go alone otherwise, I guess I __have__ to tell them… _

He sighed heavily.

_And I'm going to go ahead and guarantee they'll think I'm making the wrong choice. But __I__ know this is right for me. I just hope they don't give me __too__ hard of a time about it._

###

Mike looked forlornly around the room he and Micky shared. He'd been _trying_ to work out some lyrics for a tune he'd just recently perfected, but his mind kept drifting and when he'd accidently started writing down the lyrics of a Beatles song, he knew it was time to stop.

_I really ought to know when to let it be. Davy's right. He __is__ nineteen. We shouldn't be monitoring every move of his like he's just a little kid…_

He heard a knock at his door. Picking up his notebook and pencil so he'd look like he was actually doing something, he called, "Come…come in."

The door swung open and Micky strode into the room.

"Hi Mike."

"Hi Mick."

The drummer shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Um, well, Davy said he wanted to talk to us all downstairs."

The Texan narrowed his eyes. "Why? He sure didn't seem too eager to talk to us before."

Micky held up his hands. "Look, don't ask me."

Mike shrugged, unsurprised by the brunette's reaction.

"Is that a 'yes, I'll join you guys and hear what my best friend has to say' or is that a 'Mick, after the way he was this afternoon, I'm not going to be taking any chances, thank you very much'?"

The Texan sighed. "Don't pressure me, man. I mean, I _do_ have some lyrics to work on, and…"

"Can I read what you have so far? I might be able to help you. Schlep in some symbolism, just to keep the audience guessing. You know, add some texture to one of your fluffy love songs."

"Uh, Mick, I…it's not ready yet."

"Oh c'mon, Mike. You're too modest. What you do is always great, first draft or not. Let me see." He snatched the notebook from his older friend and began scanning it.

The Texan estimated Micky had reached about the third line when he looked up, wide-eyed.

"Mike, I…I don't think the Beatles will be too happy when we rocket to the top of the charts with the lyrics to 'I'm Looking Through You' just set to a different tune."

He paused for a moment before saying, "I can see the lawsuit now: Lennon-McCartney vs. Texas Prairie Chicken Mike Nesmith."

The guitarist groaned and rolled his eyes. "We haven't gotten to that episode yet. Now apologize to the folks at home for spoiling next season for them."

"Oh, uh…sorry guys." Micky laughed nervously and waved.

He looked back to Mike. "But really, what's the big idea with plagiarizing the Beatles' lyrics and setting it to your own music? Why don't we just play the original song? You can write other lyrics for the music."

The Texan sighed. "I'm not going to use _those_ lyrics. They're just…they express how I feel right now."

"With Davy?" the drummer inquired gently, now enraged at himself for not taking Mike's word for the fact that the lyrics weren't ready. The Texan nodded miserably.

The silence that followed this comment was, to say the least, awkward.

Finally, Micky asked, "So, man, are you joining us or not?"

Mike sighed and shut his notebook. "Do I really have a choice?"

"Well, you don't have to make it sound like such a chore. C'mon, we're talking about your _best friend_ here." the drummer pointed out.

"I know. But why now? We've poked and prodded him to no end. He clams up. But now, _now_, when _some of us_ are barely on speaking terms, _now_ he wants to talk."

"You're not seeing the forest for the trees, Mike. He's going to _talk to us_. What more do you want?"

The guitarist just shrugged again and followed Micky out the door and down the stairs.

Davy and Peter were already sitting on the couch in the living room. The former rose when Mike and Micky entered.

"Mike, I..." he began, only to be cut off by the Texan holding up his hand.

"I know. Micky told me." With that, he settled himself on the couch with their other two band mates, folded he hands, and patiently waited for the Englishman to begin.

It didn't take him long. "Guys, first of all I want to say that you're some of the best friends I've ever had. The times we've had together...they forever remind me of those I had with my first mates. And I'll always treasure them." He paused. "That's why I don't want you to go to England with me."

Mike raised his hand tentatively, wondering if he should ask or just assume the obvious.

Davy cracked a smile. "You don't have to raise your hand Mike. I'm not your teacher."

The Texan cleared his throat. "Davy, is the reason you don't want us to go with you that you've had so many good times with us that you don't want to risk evening out the ratio?"

Davy's facial expression vaguely resembled that of a deer in the headlights of a car.

"No. You see, after much consideration and thinking, I've decided..."

His sentence was cut short by a knock at the door.

"Who in the world could that be? I thought everyone in town had stopped by already." Mike remarked dryly, raising himself off the sofa and heading in the door's general direction.

He didn't get a very good view of who it was through the peep door, but, assured that it wasn't Mr. Babbitt coming for the rent, he opened the door anyway. Officer Franklin quickly rushed into the pad.

"Why, Officer. Nice to see you again. Where's your buddy?" Micky began suavely, determined to appear completely oblivious to any snarls or growls the policeman might emit.

But neither came, and the drummer's question went unanswered. Instead he spoke in a hurried but concerned voice.

"You!" the burly man pointed to Davy. "You said you need to be in Manchester, England?"

Davy's face one again transitioned to his deer in the headlights look. "Yeah..."

"I want you to take your friends here with you. And you need to leave tonight!"

Davy gaped at Mike. "You not only recruited Grandfather to tell me that, but also a policeman? Wow. You really thought of every angle, didn't you?"

Then, looking to Officer Franklin, he said, "We don't have the money for our plane tickets yet. Not to mention that we aren't packed, and us packing is usually a very...uh...messy process."

"I'll pay for your plane tickets! And as for packing, just throw some stuff in a suitcase. It really doesn't have to be hard unless you make it hard." He was hyperventilating by this point, and his eyes were pleading.

Micky narrowed his own eyes. "What motive do we have to trust you? It was you, after all, who was bound and determined to drag Davy out of here this afternoon. It was only my _encyclopedic_ knowledge of the law and your fellow policeman that saved him. _Now_ you seem awfully eager to help us."

"Just trust me! It's a long, long story. But you _have_ to get out of here. _Tonight_. If you'll give me a number, I'll call you when it's safe for you to come back to the States."

"Does anyone have a piece of paper?" Davy asked, producing a pen from behind his ear."

"I have a piece I found on the kitchen floor. Does it matter?" Peter pulled a sheet of notebook paper from his pocket.

"Nope." the percussionist snatched it and began scrawling, then tore the written-on part off and handed it to Officer Franklin. "Ask for David." He stuffed the rest of the paper in his pocket.

"Roger." the policeman responded quickly.

"No, he said to ask for _David_." Peter corrected him.

"No, 'Roger' means..." the officer began.

"Don't try to explain something like that to Pete. It _never_ works." Mike cut him off.

"Well, whatever. I'll pick you up tonight and you can take the last flight out of here."

"Why do you have to pick us up?" Micky snapped, still unsure as whether he should trust Officer Franklin.

The officer held up his hands. "I wouldn't want you using my money to buy anything other than plane tickets."

"Logical, Officer." Micky said in his best Mr. Spock impression.

"Very good, Micky. You're pure Vulcan." Mike commented dryly.

"Vulcan?" the police officer asked with slight bewilderment.

"Not anything you'd dig. So what time are you picking us up?" Davy inquired.

"Now wait a second Davy. How do we know we can trust him?" the drummer demanded. "Your grandfather's already paying for us. Why should we take, ahem, _him_ up on this?" He nodded towards Officer Franklin. "He seems _terribly_ set on getting us out of here. Besides, he's _obviously_ never seen _Star Trek_."

"What does _that_ have to do with anything?" the Englishman shot back.

"It implies that he's a suspicious guy with no social life who doesn't even own a TV set and goes around conning musical groups for the fun of it. Davy, he tried to drag you off this afternoon. How can you trust him after that?"

"And he was perfectly justified in trying to 'drag me off'. Through some miscommunication he was under the impression that I had committed an assault. Aren't you the suspicious one, Micky?"

"I'm merely protecting our interests."

"Well, 'interest protector'..." Davy began.

"Hold it you two!" Mike ejaculated. "I say we take Officer Franklin up on his offer."

"And since when did you become the group dictator?" Micky snapped.

"I'm siding with Mike." Davy announced, walking over to stand beside his friend.

"Well, I'm sticking by Micky." Peter countered, putting a hand on the drummer's shoulder.

"I won't have you two sponging off Grandfather!" Davy protested.

"But he offered to pay!" the drummer retorted heatedly.

"That still doesn't make it right!"

"Okay, okay, okay. Everyone calm down." Officer Franklin soothed. "I'm sorry; it was only a suggestion because I'm concerned for your safety here. But if I must cause discord..."

"No! I don't know about them, but Davy and I are taking you up on your offer for sure." Mike responded quickly.

"'Concerned for our safety'? That's a suspicious line if I ever heard one. I say we go!" Micky blurted out.

"But Micky, I thought..." the blonde started.

Realizing his mistake, the drummer tried to correct himself. "No, wait..."

Davy grinned wryly. "Sorry, Mick. Your little tongue slip has got you stuck." Then he looked to Officer Franklin. "Tonight, then?"

"Tonight."


	14. But Today There Is No Black Or White

The rest of the day was a hurried packing session for the Monkees with only two short breaks for lunch and dinner. The end product was four exhausted primates and eight sloppily stuffed bags.

"Man, is this all really worth it? Why don't we just wait for Gramps to send the money?" Micky collapsed dramatically on the couch.

"Whether it's worth it or not is a moot point. We gave the officer our word, and it is our duty to carry that word out." Mike replied, sitting down on his suitcase.

"Guys, wouldn't it be a _whole_ lot easier if you just told him you guys had changed your minds, and then I could go to England alone? As planned." Davy queried hopefully, leaning on the back of the chair that Peter was sitting in.

"No, Davy." The Texan sighed without amusement. "Guys, when was the last time we had a band meeting?"

"Hmm… Let me check." Micky scrambled for his notebook. "Uhhh…Well, not counting us grilling Davy, right after they took Chuck Holly to jail."

"Three _months_?" Mike demanded, nearly leaping up from his perch. "Well, I move we have another one right now**.**"

"I second the motion." Micky exclaimed.

"I third it." Peter yelped.

The Englishman groaned. "I veto it."

"Three to one, motion carries." The drummer said breezily.

The Texan guitarist sighed again. "Davy, why are you so reluctant to talk to us? We're your family, for goodness sake."

"You're not my family!" the percussionist snapped.

"Oh yes we are." Mike countered.

"'Friends are relatives you make for yourself.' Eustache Deschamps." Micky added.

"Relatives. Not family." The Englishman replied heatedly.

"What's the difference?" Peter demanded.

"Relatives are those who are related to you, by blood or by heart. But family…" He trailed off.

"Go ahead Tiny. Tell us _your_ definition of family." The Texan prompted.

"Family… the ones you can run to when you want to end it all. The ones who would claim to have committed your crime just so you'd be acquitted. Those who would avenge your killer with their bare hands. Home follows them. They go through immeasurable pain for you."

Davy's words seemed to echo in the silence.

"But Tiny, wouldn't we claim to have committed a crime just so you could be acquitted? Wouldn't we avenge your killer with our bare hands? Wouldn't we go through immeasurable pain for you?" Mike asked with astringent pointedness.

Davy stoically replied, "Perhaps you would, perhaps you wouldn't. I've no way of knowing. The last time I supposedly committed a crime, Mick just staved the police off with some legal babble. I haven't been killed. And as for immeasurable pain, well, I wouldn't let you." He sighed. "And besides, you three leave one part of my equation empty."

"What's that?" Mike inquired.

"Home doesn't follow you."

"And just what does that mean?" Micky demanded in an almost accusatory tone. Mike shot him a withering look that effectively quieted him.

"I'm not at complete peace. I don't know how long it's been since I've been without hurting, without longing…"

The Texan shook his head. "Tiny, that's just life."

The Englishman expelled an angry breath. "Would you care to let me finish, _Newkirk_?"

"Davy, like I said before, if you want to talk to Newkirk, switch the…" Another glare from Mike silenced the drummer.

"But go ahead Tiny. Finish."

"Thank you. _Nishwash_." The percussionist narrowed his eyes. "It's not the hurting and the longing alone. It's _why_ I hurt and long."

"And just why _do_ you hurt and long, Davy?" Micky asked with a tinge of sarcasm.

"Well if you _people_ would quit interrupting me I might actually be able to get a word in edgewise." The nineteen year old spat. "I hurt and long because…" His voice lost its edge. "I'm…I'm homesick." Completely ignoring the bewildered looks on his band mates' faces, he tearfully continued. "I was so content here. But when Blair came back, began harassing us, I just started wanting to go home. I thought it would pass. But it didn't."

Mike cocked an eyebrow. "Davy, we _are_ going to your home."

The Englishman looked confused for a moment. Then everything seemed to click.

"Mike, you don't understand. No, not at all."

"What's there to understand? You want to go home. We're going there."

"Oh! What a difficult concept to grasp." Micky slapped his forehead. Peter struggled to muffle a snort and in spite of himself Mike cracked a smile. Davy remained unamused.

"You just don't get it. None of you do. Any one of you, _any_ one you, could hop on a train and be home before you know it. But it isn't that way with me. Do you know how much plane tickets from California to England cost? Not any price to sneeze at, I'll tell you that. But in this case it's not the distance that matters. It's my intent."

"Tiny, what does this have to…" Mike began. He was stunned when Davy cut him off with a withering look to shame all past withering looks and he couldn't help but mutter, "You're pretty good at that."

"Well, thank you. I'm glad you approve of _something_ I do." The other man hissed.

"Davy, why do you have to be like this? Why can't we just talk rationally, like human beings, instead of you trying to attack us every time we so much as bring up even the slightest unpleasant thing? What's with the whole seeming to go back to normal and then being provoked at the drop of a hat bit?" Mike demanded.

"Mike, I…"

The Texan held up a hand. "Look, I don't want to hear it, okay? How you're oh so sorry for what you've done, but then you just turn back around and do it again. It's a vicious cycle. I don't know whether you're consciously doing it again and again or not, but it _has_ to stop."

The undisturbed look on the Englishman's face was enough to drive the brunette guitarist over the edge.

"DON'T YOU GET IT?" He took Davy's shoulders and began shaking him violently. "DON'T YOU GET IT?"

"Mike!" Micky latched onto one of the Texan's arms and started yanking. "Peter! Grab his other arm!" The blonde complied quickly and together they were able to pull the guitarist off Davy.

"Man, what were you thinking?" the drummer demanded.

Mike looked at his hands, horrified. "I…I don't know." He fixed his eyes on the victim of his outburst. "Davy, are you okay?" He surveyed the percussionist head to foot.

"Tiny, please…" The Texan shut his eyes.

The Englishman just grinned. It was a horrible grin, exactly the type you'd expect from the titular character in _Lord of the Flies_.

"Don't you know what happens when you shake babies, Mike?"


	15. Ever Since You've Been Around

The query struck Mike as odd, to say the least. What did it mean? What _could_ it mean? Was it supposed to be symbolic or what?

He kept his head down, determined not to look at Davy while he had that horrible, vicious grin on his face.

"No Davy. I don't know. What happens when you shake babies?"

The Englishman snorted. "I suppose you want me to demonstrate. Well, I'm not going to fall for any of your tricks."

"Tiny… why can't we just reason this out like mature human beings?"

The percussionist emitted another snort. "That was what you suggested before you started shaking me. Not very much like a 'mature human being', huh?" He paused. "And quit calling me Tiny. I find it extremely insulting."

"But Davy, I…"

"Look, I've given you four years of loyal friendship, listened to every single thing you've ever had to say, and in turn I've told _you_ everything. The least you could do is stop calling me something I object to."

Mike expelled an angry breath and looked up at his friend -or was he his friend? - paying no heed to that awful grin.

"Okay, so you don't want to be called Tiny. I can respect that. But what I can't respect is almost everything else you just said is a _blatant lie_. Maybe you _have_ given me four years of loyal friendship. But you've hardly listened to everything I said. And told _me_ everything? That statement couldn't be further from the truth."

"What haven't I told you? You eventually manage to pry it out of me sooner or later." Davy laughed mirthlessly.

"Why don't you want us to go to England with you? _That's_ what you haven't told me." the Texan snapped.

"And it's none of your concern. Why don't you get that?" Three pairs of disapproving eyes met his. He sighed, and when he began to speak again his voice seemed to have softened somewhat.

"I…my sister's dead, I'm not over Chuck escaping from prison, I'm still trying to figure out how to say goodbye to you guys…" He stopped abruptly, the look on his face indicating that he'd said something he wished he hadn't.

"Goodbye? What's that supposed to mean?" the drummer asked quietly.

"I…"

_How do I say this? How am I supposed to tell them? It was all so nicely planned out until they went and threw a spanner in the works…_

"I…guys, I don't know how to say this. I…want to go home. For good."

The room was silent as the Englishman's words sank in.

Micky was the first to speak. "This is some kind of joke, right?" Davy solemnly shook his head.

"Guys, I'm…I'm sorry. It's just, I've been homesick for a while now and when I heard that Bea died, I started thinking…would it have been any different if I'd been there? Grandfather didn't tell me what happened to her. Could I have somehow prevented it? And what about when Grandfather dies? Or Penelope?" he paused. "Remember I was talking earlier about home following someone? Well, I just don't have _any_ remnant of home here. And now that Bea's dead…I'm all Grandfather has left. Shouldn't I be there with him for the rest of his life?"

"And what about us?" Peter asked, his tearful voice tinged with just the slightest taste of astringency.

Davy looked like he was fighting tears himself. "I'm sorry. I have to go. I _have_ to!" He yanked a tissue out of his pocket and dabbed at his eyes. "I'll always have the memories we made. I'll treasure them. Always. But don't you see? I did this because it would be so much easier to say goodbye here rather than there. It would be better for all of us. _That's_ why I'm asking you not to go to England with me."

Mike glanced at Davy and realized that the grin was gone.

_He's coming back… he's coming back!_

The Texan cleared his throat. "Davy, are you _sure_ it would be easier to say goodbye here? Just to have you walk out that door and never be seen again? Or would it be easier to say goodbye there? It would be more mutually beneficial. You'd see us leaving with no compunctions about you staying in England, and we'd accept how nice and happy you were settled in back home, so we'd be able to leave with good consciences and go on with our lives. _That's_ what would be better for all of us."

"Besides," Micky chimed in, "since we're already being paid for, there's not much stopping our going with you."

Davy grinned wryly. "I suppose not. Curse it, you guys are crafty."

"We know." The drummer said smoothly.

"Yeah, we know _you_ know." Mike cut in jokingly.

"Friends again?" Peter asked hopefully, holding out his hand palm down.

"You bet." Mike put his hand on top of the blonde's.

"Did we ever stop?" Micky asked jovially, following suit.

All six of their eyes turned to their diminutive English companion.

"Et tu, Davé?" the Texan queried.

Davy rolled his eyes. "Aw, man, don't go all _Julius Caesar _on me! We'll be getting enough of that from Grandfather." And he slapped his hand on the top of the pile. His band mates all grinned simultaneously.

"Man, we gotta quit doing this." Micky nodded toward their stacked hands and shook his head. "People are gonna think we're the Fantastic Four or something."

"Yeah, but in that case who would be who?" Mike asked amusedly. "For the Beatles, it would be kinda easy; Paul's the Invisible Girl, George is the Human Torch, John is Mr. Fantastic, and Ringo is The Thing. But us… not so much."

"Oh, maybe not so hard. Because for starters, all drummers are animals. So Micky is automatically the Thing." Davy began thoughtfully.

"I resent that remark!" the Californian shot back with faux indignity. Then he grinned. "But, Davy, you'd _have_ to be the Invisible Girl, though."

"Hey!"

"You have the longest hair, you're the shortest, not to mention…"

"And I guess Mike would be Mr. Fantastic." Peter intervened. "So I'm…the Human Torch?" The quartet burst into peals of laughter.

"Can you imagine if that really happened?" Micky asked between guffaws.

"Flame on!" the blonde cried. Then he looked at his hands. "Oh darn it! I guess I'm out of gas." That comment only started the others up once again.

"The Human Torch was lucky he didn't need gas. Do you know the funny looks he would get if he just casually stopped by a filling station?" Mike snickered.

"Cosmic rays beat everything, don't they?" Micky chimed in.

"Almost everything." Davy acknowledged quietly.

"What's that, Tin- I mean, Davy?" the Texan inquired, suddenly stark serious.

"Friendship. That's the one thing that tops even cosmic rays. And Mike," he looked up at the Texan. "Go ahead and call me Tiny."

The words hung in the air, but in the first time in what seemed like forever, it wasn't because they were somehow awful or terrible. No, this time it was because of their splendor.

The silence was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"That must be Officer Franklin." Mike commented, rising.

"Our queue." Micky added.

Davy grinned broadly. "Well, c'mon fellows. England, here we come!"


	16. Hexed

Opening the door revealed that the knocker was indeed Officer Franklin, so each Monkee snatched up his suitcase and carry-on and tumbled into the officer's black sedan, Mike, Micky, and the luggage claiming the back and Peter taking the passenger seat furthest to the window, leaving poor Davy squashed between him and the burly officer.

"Isn't it a beauty?" the policeman asked proudly. "My brother's a used car salesman."

"Really?" Mike said politely.

"Yes. Would you believe this came from his lot?"

"No, sir." Micky replied with uncharacteristic sobriety.

There was a period of silence as Officer Franklin started the car.

"So," the drummer began casually, "what's got you so concerned about our safety again?" His ribs received a swift poke from Mike's elbow. The policeman sighed.

"As much as I'd like to tell you, and as much as you deserve to know, I can't say anything right now. You just need to trust me. I'll get your plane tickets, and you'll be out of this country before you know it. That's the only important thing right now."

"But why now? We were going to get money from Davy's gramps." Micky explained.

"It wouldn't have come soon enough. Look, I'm sorry for what happened this afternoon, but I was only doing my job. Healy was a little out of it and I realize that now, but I didn't at the time, okay?" His last sentence served to shut all four Monkees up very well.

Finally Peter spoke up, but on a totally different subject. "Is it Christmastime in England, Davy?" He nodded toward the shop windows. The percussionist rolled his eyes.

"Of course it is, Pete. There's only an eight hour time difference, you know," he sighed. "I wonder if The Silver Bells is still open…"

The Texan raised his eyebrows slightly. "The Silver Bells?"

"Yes," the Englishman smiled faintly. "It was a little shop run by Buddy Berry. He was like another grandfather to me, except not half as formal…" Davy stopped speaking upon seeing the look on Micky's face.

"What's wrong Mick?"

The drummer's eyes bugged. "You actually associate with a man named _Buddy Berry_?"

"Yeah…" the percussionist responded, bewildered.

"Are you nuts?! He's probably the most diabolical fiend that side of…"

"Buddy?" Davy chuckled. "No. No. He wouldn't hurt a fly!"

"But he _has_ to be evil!" Micky insisted. "Don't you dig? His name is reverse that of Chuck Holly's!"

"What?!"

"_Chuck_ Berry. Buddy _Holly_. _Buddy_ Holly. Chuck _Berry_."

Davy rolled his eyes. "Man Mick, you make the weirdest connections. I assure you, you will _love_ Buddy. You know, when I was younger, the two of us used to dance around to Elvis records."

"So?" Micky asked, still skeptical.

"Now imagine my grandfather doing that and it won't be a mystery why I like Buddy so much."

"Gramps?" the drummer snorted.

Davy's face broke into a grin. "See what I mean?"

The brunet wrinkled his nose. "I _sure_ do…"

The Englishman sighed. "It's strange, that Bea would die on the thirteenth. She was so superstitious. I always kind of, you know, laughed at her ideas, but it makes me wonder… could she have been right?"

Mike just shook his head. "Man, the last thing we need is a superstitious Monkee."

"Well," Davy replied, "You're not exactly innocent yourself. Remember when Peter got sick on February second and you said it was because two and two add up to four, which is a bad luck number in…"

The Texan put up a hand.

"Okay, man, I'll admit, _some _things turn me into a regular Texas prairie chicken, but I'm not half as bad as our fair drummer over here…"

"Hey! Have you got something against drummers? First we're animals, now we're superstitious… Oh Officer, don't drive on now!" Micky exclaimed.

"Why not?" the policeman asked, putting on the gas. "The light's green."

"That's just the problem. Green is a bad luck color! Besides, that street lamp blinked thirteen times!" he protested.

"I'd say it needs a new bulb, then." The older man deadpanned.

"Our entire trip will be hexed!" Peter cried.

Mike sighed. "Oh man. Peter, don't you start too. I mean, numbers are one thing, but when you start believing _colors_ are bad luck…"

"Not _colors_. _A_ color!" Micky corrected.

"Look Mick, you've done nothing but make everyone nervous," Mike glanced at the driver's seat, "maybe with the exception of Officer Franklin, because he's not naïve enough to believe in such things," he added.

"But Davy was the one who brought it up!" the drummer ejaculated defensively.

"Let's talk about something else." The Texan said.

The vehicle's silence for the next few moments was not one of gold but awkwardness.

"So," Micky's eyes nervously shifted as he spoke. "Did you guys hear about the Mothman in Virginia last month?"

"Mo…mo…mothman?" Peter stammered.

"Man, Mick, you're on a good streak tonight, aren't you?" the Englishman commented sarcastically.

"Don't be saucy, Englander!" the drummer shot back lightly.

"You Californians just don't recognize a proper gentleman when you see one, do you?"

"Guys," Mike's voice held a warning note. "I thought we called a truce."

"Mike, we were _joking_." Micky rolled his eyes. "Sometimes I think you could stand a break from the role of Daddykins. I mean, it's messing with your perception, man."

"What's a perception man?" the blond asked.

"That's a long story, Pete…" Mike replied.

"Hey, Jones, could you scoot over some? You're encroaching on my space." Officer Franklin bellowed.

"_I'm_ encroaching?" the percussionist muttered angrily, moving as far over as he could without flattening Peter into a pancake on the door.

"Weren't you ever taught to respect your elders, _boy_? You should feel lucky that I care enough to do this for you, especially considering that I'm _sure_ you would have been convicted had I let George drag you off."

"_George_ wasn't the one ready to drag me off!"

Had Davy been able to see Mike, he would have noted that the Texan was shooting him a _drop it! _look, but unfortunately, between the dark and both of their positions, that was something of an impossibility.

"Don't you be insolent, young man!" the officer snapped. "I'm perfectly capable of pulling over and forcing you to remove yourself from this vehicle, if necessary."

"Why don't you just…" the Englishman began heatedly.

"That won't be needed, sir. He shan't be acting up anymore. _Right_?" Mike intervened. Davy didn't reply.

Officer Franklin groaned. "Maybe the Human Law Book is right. You _should_ take a break from being the team dad. Let your friends get out of some of these scrapes themselves."

The guitarist sighed. "Someday, I might try to take a break. A _short_ break." He gave Micky a withering look. "But who knows what these guys would get into?"

"You might be surprised."

"What they do _never_ surprises me anymore." The Texan grinned. "I've just learned to go with the flow of things and not lose my head in the process."

"Quite admirable. But has it ever occurred to you that someday they _might not have you_?"

Mike shifted uneasily. "Uhhh… I try not to make a big deal out of that fact."

"What would they do if you got married? Or decided to pursue another career? Where would they be then?"

"You know, we _are_ present." Micky cut in.

Officer Franklin ignored the interruption. "Well, Michael?"

"I'm…_sure_ they'd get along perfectly fine. Besides," he cleared his throat, "We'll all go our separate ways eventually. The Monkees won't – they _can't_ – last forever."

"Are you sure about that?" the officer queried.

"'Course I am. We're just human. Despite the number of things we've been thrown into that seem to require super heroics."

"How would you like to stay as you are? Forever?" Officer Franklin asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

"I _don't_ know. But since that's impossible, isn't it sort of a moot point?"

"Not necessarily."

"How's that?" Micky asked.

"Well, do I have four brave volunteers?"

"Volunteers for _what_?" Davy demanded.

"Oh, a little experiment of mine." Another glance in the rearview mirror.

"May I inquire what _type_ of experiment?" Mike asked smoothly.

"If I told you it wouldn't be any fun, now would it?"

"What's your game, Officer?" Mike asked tersely. The policeman just pressed a button on the steering wheel that began diffusing a mist throughout the car.

"I'm sorry, boys," he murmured. "This is the only way to do it." He inched the car closer to the edge of the cliff. Mike nervously felt his door. Locked.

And with a sudden jerk of the steering wheel and a slam of the driver's door as Officer Franklin evacuated, the automobile tumbled over the cliff, into the frigid waters of the Atlantic.


	17. If I Was In LA

The Monkees' diminishing screams pierced the air like thousands of needles manned by expert seamstresses. Officer Franklin crept back to the cliff, and then turned away.

_Why should I worry? They're fine. I __know__ they are._

He glanced behind him at the road. Well, the boys were safe. That was what mattered. The others would take it from here. But _he_ couldn't stick around. From here he'd have to continue by foot.

###

Davy quickly cast a glance at the window. Everything was flying past, faster than ever.

"We're all going to be killed!" Micky screeched wildly, clawing at the seat, trying to find something –_anything_—to hold onto.

The automobile hit the water with a terrifying, titanic splash and almost immediately began to sink; the only beneficial part of this was that it was slowed down considerably.

"We've had weird stuff happen to us before, but this is ridiculous!" the drummer shook his head. "The 'bad cop' comes back wanting to get us out of this country as soon as possible, even offering to pay our plane fare. And then, on the way there, he just _casually_ tosses us off the cliff. And evacuates himself in the process! What's the big deal here?"

"I think we have a bigger problem than that." Mike commented dryly. "Maybe that we just _happen_ to be sinking in the Atlantic Ocean in an automobile."

"Or that we _aren't_ sinking to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean in an automobile." Peter added quietly.

"Hush. Of course we're sinking." Micky said off-handedly.

"Not the right time for humor, Pete." Mike groaned.

"Guys, he's right." Davy exclaimed, looking out the window. "We've stopped moving."

Micky pressed his face against the window glass. "Impossible!" The Texan stared out the other window.

"Impossible. But true." He murmured.

The quartet was still basking in the silence following Mike's remark when they were knocked out of their seats by a violent spinning motion; Micky and Mike were slammed against first their windows and then the luggage while Peter was just thrown to the floor and Davy smacked into the steering wheel, activating the horn.

"It's not stopping!" Micky exclaimed, grasping the back of Peter's seat.

And indeed it wasn't. The automobile just gained speed as it forcefully spiraled downward, tossing the Monkees every which way.

"I'm getting seasick." Peter swallowed, trying to keep his nausea at bay.

"Hold on, Big Pete. This has to end pretty soon." Micky said in his best attempt at placid. He was thrust against the window once again.

"You doin' okay, Davy?" Mike queried, ducking a flying carry-on.

No reply.

"Davy, are you doing okay?"

The drummer dared to look over the seat. "I think the steering wheel knocked him silly, Mike. But Peter's the one we need to be more worried about. He looks like a Brussels sprout."

"Gee, thanks a lot." The blond muttered unappreciatively.

"What's with all this? We start, we stop, we start. When're we going to stop again?" Micky asked, starting to hoist himself into the front seat.

"Mick, I wouldn't do that…" Mike warned, doubt and worry permeating his voice.

"Why? I'm only going to…" The drummer didn't get a chance to finish his sentence before another reel tossed him over the seat. He hit his head squarely on the dashboard, and was cast to the floor.

"Oh for the love of chocolate chip cookies!" the Texan muttered. Did Micky try to be dumb sometimes, or was he just born that way?

_Oh, what does it matter? Whatever way you look at it, he's just… __Micky__. _

Clearing his throat, the Texan asked, "Is he okay, Pete? I mean, no blood or anything?"

"Nope." The other guitarist replied. "But it's getting a little crowded down here."

"Don't worry; this should only be temporary. I certainly don't know what we've done that would be worthy of…" A flying suitcase hit him in the face.

"_This_, eternally." he finished emphatically.

"What's happening?" a quiet English voice squeaked. Davy peered over the top of the seat.

"Danger, air-minded suitcase alert!" Mike deadpanned speedily. When Davy didn't react, he rolled his eyes and said, "In other words, get down!"

"Oh!" the Englishman exclaimed, quickly complying.

Relaxing a little, the Texan asked, "Did the steering wheel get you too bad?"

The percussionist chuckled.

"Let's just say my head will probably be disproportionately large by tomorrow."

"If there'll be a tomorrow…" Micky croaked.

"Well, it looks like all of us are conscious now… um, do any of you have a pencil?" Mike asked a tad uneasily.

"What for?" Davy queried.

"I hate to say we're all conscious without knocking on some wood."

"Oh, Mike. Not the superstition bit again!" the Brit groaned.

"Well, I just figured it couldn't hurt to take a precaution or…" His sentence was marred by an abrupt ceasing of the car's movement.

"Two." He finished. "Uh, looks like we've stopped. Knocking on… what about that pencil, guys?"

Before the others could say a word, the car lurched forward, but instead of beginning to spiral again, it started speeding forward as if on the road.

"This thing is driving on water!" Mike exclaimed.

"What's _with_ this kooky car?" the drummer asked, rising to a kneeling position and leaning over to the driver's side. "You s'pose it's on autopilot? Gosh, this would be fun to play around with…" He started to turn a golden knob under the steering wheel.

"Hey, I wouldn't…" Davy began.

But it was too late. The knob emitted a shock that sent the brunet flying into the backseat.

"Are you okay?" the Texan guitarist scrambled over to his friend.

No response. He glanced up. "Out like a light."

"Mike…l…l…look!" Davy cried, his face the picture of terror, and the finger he was pointing shaking incessantly.

Mike flipped his head back to Micky. He was convulsing wildly; the electric shock that had put him in his current state had formed something of an aura around his body. A flying arm hit Mike's face and the Texan felt the shock pull him in.

"Davy, can you shut it off?" he demanded as he began shivering violently. Everything within view appeared to be dissolving into sand. Another tremble rendered his world dark.

"I'll…I'll try." The Englishman crawled underneath the steering wheel.

His hand shaking, he reached for the knob.

_Turn. Turn. Turn…_

"Aah!" he cried as another shock knocked him against the bottom of the seat. A loud buzzer went off just as everything went black.


	18. Like Rain From the Sky

What Peter first became aware of as he shook the fogginess of sleep was a low, humming sound, almost bumblebeeish, and not at all like the strident noise he'd heard before everything went black. He lifted his head from its position lying on a crate and craned his neck to get a better view.

Wait. A _crate_? The blonde did a double take and whipped around.

Yes. A crate.

"Hey Pete, you've finally come to." A familiar voice said from behind him. He turned his head.

"Mick!" he exclaimed. "Umm…" he pointed to the wooden cube. "That's a crate."

The drummer rolled his eyes. "Oh, I thought it was a refrigerator."

"Hey, Pete." Mike greeted, coming up behind Micky.

"Where are we?" the blonde guitarist asked, reclining back on the crate."

"Cargo plane, autopilot." Davy's voice offered tersely as he exited the cockpit. "There's something kooky about this. Something _real _kooky…"

"You think that car was rigged?" Micky asked.

"Think? I'm sure of it." the Texan replied. "Why else would it go in those strange sinking patterns, and then knock us out with shocks?"

"Maybe Officer Franklin isn't really on our side after all." Peter commented.

"Well, this certainly serves to teach us a lesson. You can't _really_ trust anyone." Mike added grimly. "I mean, look where it got us."

"Man, this is all my fault." Davy face palmed.

Mike put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It's just as much my fault as it is yours Tiny. We just have to remember to be more careful in the future."

"But what about right now?" Micky demanded.

The Texan sighed. "What about it? I mean, let's see, all four of us and our luggage are here, as far as I can tell, no one's injured, we're all getting along quite well, we seem pretty safe, not to mention…"

Suddenly, the floor slid out from under their feet and before they knew what was happening all the contents of the plane—themselves included—were thrust downward. The abrupt burst of cold December air harshly bit their eyes and skin.

"Are there parachutes on this stuff?" the drummer shouted over the wind, clinging to a fast falling crate desperately.

"If there are, they're out of order!" Mike replied, clutching both Davy's hand and the handle of a suitcase Peter had adhered himself to.

"What are we going to do?" Davy demanded.

"What's there to do?" the Texan asked.

"Mike, how do you keep a cool head when stuff like this happens?"

"In this weather it's actually pretty easy, Tiny."

"Very funny. _Very_ funny." Micky remarked sarcastically.

"Okay, why don't we sing?" the brunet guitarist retorted.

"You must be joking!" Davy exclaimed.

"Sing at a time like this?" the drummer snapped.

"Well Pete, how about it? These two have questioned the Great Texan One, but it's not too late for you. 'Here we come…'"

"'Walkin' down the street…'" the blonde reciprocated, smiling.

"Hey! That's my line!" Micky cried defensively. "'We get the funniest looks from…'"

"'Everyone we meet!'" Davy wrapped up with a grin.

In unison they began, "Hey, hey we're the…"

_Thump! _

"Ees!" the quartet exclaimed, hitting the ground.

"When we want to change the band name, the 'Thumpees' should definitely be a candidate." Micky remarked.

"Well, my fellow 'Thumpees', I'd say it's a miracle we landed safely. I mean…we _did_, right? Anyone hurt?" Mike immediately shifted into full big brother mode.

"Nope. We're fine." The drummer replied, looking up at the ornate house they'd landed in front of. "Wow! What a pad!"

"Oh my…" Davy began, his eyes bugging at the structure. He crumpled to the ground.

"Tiny? Tiny? Are you hurt?" Mike demanded rapidly, looming above the Englishman's hunched figure.

"No, no…but…this is Grandfather's house."

"Well, how convenient!" Peter exclaimed.

"Hey Mike, how long do you suppose we were out?" Micky asked, nudging the Texan in the ribcage.

Mike shook his head. "I have a feeling it was for at least a few hours. But since we have no idea how far we travelled underwater, who knows?"

"There's something super fishy about all this." the drummer commented uneasily.

"Maybe. But Pete, Mick," he drew the two closer and lowered his voice to a whisper, "Try not to show that, okay? We have to be strong, for Davy's sake, okay? Remember, his sister lived here, so it no doubt holds countless memories of her. So try not to make it _too_ entirely obvious that something here isn't right."

"I think he already knows." Peter said.

"Yeah, but we don't want to worry him any further, right? So let's just act like everything is great, 'kay?"

Micky shrugged. "I guess it can't hurt, huh? Heck, we might even start believing it ourselves."

The Texan grinned. "Right." He raised his voice again. "Peter, Mick, get the bags."

"Yes, sir." The Californian deadpanned, blazing the trail towards where all the suitcases and carry-ons had landed in a heap.

Meanwhile, Mike knelt down next to the percussionist. "Hey, Davy, you're home. That's what you wanted, remember?"

"Kinda weird circumstances if you ask me." he muttered.

"Yeah, but really, who cares? Now we'd appreciate it a lot if you'd get off the ground."

"Why?" the boy murmured.

"For one thing, if we entered this house without you, your Grandfather would probably give us what for, and I, for one, would kind of like to get out of this cold without being met by a fist. For another thing, what will all your old sweethearts think when they see your face covered with mud?"

"What old sweethearts?" His hissed remark as he reluctantly got up was barely audible and Mike decided not to question him about it.

From the moment he stood up, Davy's legs felt rubbery and wobbly. Mike took one arm; Peter, shifting his share of the suitcases, grabbed the other, and they ascended the steps with Micky bringing up the rear. Davy gladly allowed the others to drag him. Every movement somehow made his heart twinge just a little more.

_None of this is real. It can't be. It's just a bad dream. We'll go into the house and it'll all disappear. She and Grandfather and Penelope will all be hanging up ornaments and drinking tea and laughing. Then she'll look up—or __down__, rather—at me and say, "Join the party, dear brother." Dripping with sarcasm of course._

"Are you okay, Tiny?" Mike asked, his voice brimming with concern.

He just nodded and the Texan reached for the knocker. It sounded the same hollow noise it always had, bringing Davy back to his earlier years.

The door opened, and the boys found themselves face to face with a portly woman of about sixty. Her iron colored hair was up in a bun and she smelled faintly of vanilla and cinnamon. Her face was gentle, hosting moist, clouded gray eyes.

"D…D…Davy." She stuttered, enveloping the English boy in a hug.

"Penelope!" He choked out, collapsing into her arms and burying his face in her ample bosom.

Penelope looked up at the others and smiled a little. "Come in." she invited tearfully.

Closing the door behind them, they stepped into a small room with faded red carpet, a few armchairs of varying colors, and a little table that held a bare, drooping Christmas tree.

Davy's grandfather was sitting in a Prussian blue chair, his head slightly bowed.

Having struck his grandson's band mates as quite fearsome that last time they had met, they were surprised to see that his face had softened and his eyes reddened, as if he had been crying recently. A wet handkerchief hanging out of his breast pocket provided further evidence of this.

He raised his head, looked at Micky, Peter, and Mike and cleared his throat.

"Thank you for coming." He said regally. "I realize how much you must mean to David in this time of suffering."

"Anytime, Mr. Jones." Mike replied sincerely. "We certainly wouldn't have wanted him to go alone, especially with Chuck Holly on the loose again."

The older Englishman sighed. "I'd hoped that would never happen again. Oh well." He rose. "Come up to my study with me. There are some things I think we need to discuss."


End file.
